The  Blood  Red  Dawn 


.The 

Blood   Red  Dawn 


by 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 


Harper     &    Brothers    Publishers 

New    York    and    London 


911 


THE  BLOOD- RED  DAWN 

Copyright  1920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  May,  1920 

E-U 


To   My   Mother 


423871 


The  Blood  Red  Dawn 
Book  I 


THE   BLOOD   RED   DAfFN 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  pastor's  announcement  had  been  swallowed 
up  in  a  hum  of  truant  inattention,  and  as  the 
heralded  speaker  made ,  his  appearance  upon  the 
platform  Claire  Robson,  leaning  forward,  said  to 
her  mother: 

"What? .  .  .  Did  you  catch  his  name?" 
"A  foreigner  of  some  sort ! "  replied  Mrs.  Robson, 
with  smug  sufficiency. 

For  a  moment  the  elder  woman's  sneer  dulled 
the  edge  of  Claire's  anticipations,  but  presently 
the  man  began  to  speak,  and  at  once  she  felt  a 
sense  of  power  back  of  his  halting  words,  a  sudden 
bursting  forth  of  bloom  amid  the  frozen  assembly 
that  sat  ice-bound,  refusing  to  be  melted  by  the 
fires  of  an  alien  enthusiasm.  She  could  not  help 
wondering  whether  he  felt  how  hopeless  it  would 
be  to  force  a  sympathetic  response  from  his  au 
dience.  In  ordinary  times  the  Second  Presbyterian 
Church  of  San  Francisco  could  not  possibly  have 
had  any  interest  in  Serbia  except  as  a  field  for 
foreign  missionaries.  Now,  with  America  in  the 
war  and  speeding  up  the  draft,  these  worthy  people 

3 


.  RED  DAWN 


were  too  much  concerned  with  problems  nearer 
their  own  hearthstones  to  be  swept  off  their  feet  by 
a  specific  and  almost  inarticulate  appeal  for  an 
obscure  country,  made  only  a  shade  less  remote  by 
the  accident  of  being  accounted  an  ally. 

Claire,  straining  at  attention,  found  it  hard  to 
follow  him.  He  talked  rapidly  and  with  unfamiliar 
emphasis,  and  he  waved  his  hands.  Frankly,  peo 
ple  were  bored.  They  had  come  to  hear  a  concert 
and  incidentally  swell  the  Red  Cross  fund,  but  they 
had  not  reckoned  on  quite  this  type  of  harangue. 
Besides,  an  appetizing  smell  of  coffee  from  the 
church  kitchen  had  begun  to  beguile  their  senses. 
And  yet,  the  man  talked  on  and  on,  until  quite 
suddenly  Claire  Robson  began  to  have  a  strange 
feeling  of  disquiet,  an  embarrassment  for  him,  such 
as  one  feels  when  an  intimate  friend  or  kinsman 
unconsciously  makes  a  spectacle  of  himself.  She 
wished  that  he  would  stop.  She  longed  to  rise 
from  her  seat  and  scream,  to  create  an  outlandish 
scene,  to  do  anything,  in  short,  that  would  silence 
him.  At  this  point  he  turned  his  eyes  in  her  direc 
tion,  and  she  felt  the  scorch  of  an  intense  inner  fire. 
Instinctively  she  lowered  her  glance.  .  .  .  When  she 
looked  up  again  his  gaze  was  still  fixed  upon  her. 
She  felt  her  color  rise.  From  that  moment  on  she 
had  a  sense  that  she  was  his  sole  audience.  He 
was  talking  to  her.  The  others  did  not  matter. 
She  still  did  not  have  any  very  distinct  idea  what 
it  was  all  about,  but  the  manner  of  it  held  her  cap 
tive.  But  gradually  the  mists  cleared,  he  became 
more  coherent,  and  slowly,  imperceptibly,  bit  by 
bit,  he  won  the  others.  Yet  never  for  an  instant 

4 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

did  he  take  his  eyes  from  her.  When  he  finished, 
a  momentary  silence  blocked  the  final  burst  of 
applause.  But  Claire  Robson's  hands  were  locked 
tightly  together,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  dis 
appeared  that  she  realized  that  she  had  not  paid 
him  the  tribute  of  even  a  parting  glance. 

The  pastor  came  back  upon  the  platform  and  an 
nounced  that  refreshments  would  be  served  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  next  number.  A  heavy  odor  of 
coffee  continued  to  float  from  the  church  kitchen. 
A  red-haired  woman  stepped  forward  and  began  to 
sing. 

Already  Claire  Robson  dreaded  the  ordeal  of 
supper.  The  fact  that  tables  were  being  laid 
further  disturbed  her.  This  meant  that  she  and 
her  mother  would  have  to  push  their  way  into  some 
group  which,  at  best,  would  remain  indifferent  to 
their  presence.  When  coffee  was  served  informally 
things  were  not  so  awkward.  To  be  sure,  one  had 
to  balance  coffee-cup  and  cake-plate  with  an  amaz 
ing  and  painful  skill,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  table- 
less  groups  did  not  emphasize  one's  isolation. 
Claire  had  got  to  the  point  where  she  would  have 
welcomed  active  hostility  on  the  part  of  her  fellow 
church  members,  but  their  utter  indifference  was 
soul-killing.  She  would  have  liked  to  remember 
one  occasion  when  any  one  had  betrayed  the  slight 
est  interest  in  either  her  arrival  or  departure,  or 
rather  in  the  arrival  and  departure  of  her  mother 
and  herself. 

The  solo  came  to  an  end,  and  the  inevitable  ap 
plause  followed,  but  before  the  singer  could  respond 
to  the  implied  encore  most  of  the  listeners  began 

5 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

frank  and  determined  advances  upon  the  tables. 
The  concert  was  over. 

Mrs.  Robson  rose  and  faced  Claire  with  a  look  of 
bewilderment.  As  usual,  mother  and  daughter 
stood  irresolutely,  caught  like  two  trembling  leaves 
in  the  backwater  of  a  swirling  eddy.  At  last  Claire 
made  a  movement  toward  the  nearest  table.  Mrs. 
Robson  followed.  They  sat  down. 

The  scattered  company  speedily  began  to  form 
into  congenial  groups.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
suddenly  loosened  chatter.  Claire  Robson  sat 
silently,  rather  surprised  and  dismayed  to  find  that 
she  and  her  mother  had  chosen  a  table  which  seemed 
to  be  the  objective  of  all  the  prominent  church 
members.  The  company  facing  her  was  elegant, 
if  not  precisely  smart,  and  there  were  enough  laces 
and  diamonds  displayed  to  have  done  excellent 
service  if  the  proper  background  had  been  provided. 
Claire  was  further  annoyed  to  discover  that  her 
mother  was  regarding  the  situation  with  a  certain 
ruffling  self-satisfaction  which  she  took  no  pains 
to  conceal.  Mrs.  Robson  bowed  and  smirked,  and 
even  called  gaily  to  every  one  within  easy  range. 
There  was  something  distasteful  in  her  mother's 
sudden  and  almost  aggressive  self-assurance. 

Gradually  the  company  adjusted  itself ;  the  tables 
were  filled.  The  only  moving  figures  were  those  of 
young  women  carrying  huge  white  pitchers  of  steam 
ing  coffee.  Claire  Robson  settled  into  her  seat  with 
a  resignation  born  of  subtle  inner  misery.  Across 
her  brain  flashed  the  insistent  and  pertinent  ques 
tions  that  such  a  situation  always  evoked.  Why 
was  she  not  one  of  these  young  women  engaged  in 

6 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

distributing  refreshments?  Did  the  circles  close 
automatically  so^as  to  exclude  her,  or  did  her  own 
aloofness  shut  her  out?  What  was  the  secret  of 
these  people  about  her  that  gave  them  such  an 
assured  manner?  No  one  spoke  to  her  with  cordial 
enthusiasm.  ...  It  was  not  a  matter  of  wealth,  or 
brains,  or  prominent  church  activity.  It  was  not 
even  a  matter  of  obscurity.  Like  all  large  organiza 
tions,  the  Second  Presbyterian  Church  was  made 
up  of  every  clique  in  the  social  calendar;  the  ob 
scure  circle  was  as  clannish  and  distinctive  in  its 
way  as  any  other  group.  But  Claire  Robson  was 
forced  to  admit  that  she  did  not  belong  even  to  the 
obscure  circle.  She  belonged  nowhere — that  was 
the  galling  and  oppressive  truth  that  was  forced 
upon  her. 

At  this  point  she  became  aware  that  one  of  the 
most  prominent  church  members,  Mrs.  Towne,  was 
making  an  unmistakably  cordial  advance  in  her  di 
rection.  Claire  had  a  misgiving. . . .  Mrs.  Towne  was 
never  excessively  friendly  except  for  a  definite  aim. 

"My  dear  Miss  Robson,"  Mrs.  Towne  began, 
sweetly,  drooping  confidentially  to  a  whispering 
posture,  '  *  I  am  so  sorry,  but  I  shall  have  to  disturb 
you  and  your  mother! ...  It  just  happens  that  this 
table  has  been  reserved  for  the  elders  and  their 
wives.  ...  I  hope  you'll  understand!" 

For  a  moment  Claire  merely  stared  at  the  mes 
senger  of  evil  news.  Then,  recovering  herself,  she 
managed  to  reply : 

"Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Towne!  I  understand  perfectly. 
...  I  am  sure  we  were  very  stupid.  .  .  .  Come, 
mother!" 

7 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Mrs.  Robson  responded  at  once  to  her  daughter's 
command.  The  two  women  rose.  By  this  time 
the  task  of  securing  another  place  was  quite  hope 
less.  Claire  felt  that  every  eye  in  the  room  was 
turned  upon  them.  Picking  their  way  between  a 
labyrinth  of  tables  and  chairs,  they  literally  were 
stumbling  in  the  direction  of  an  exit  when  Claire 
felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  She  turned. 

"Pardon  me,"  the  man  opposite  her  was  saying, 
"but  may  I  offer  you  a  place  at  our  table?" 

Claire  said  nothing;  she  followed  blindly.  Her 
mother  was  close  upon  her  heels. 

The  table  was  a  small  one,  and  only  two  people 
were  occupying  it — the  man  who  had  halted  Claire, 
and  a  woman.  The  man,  standing  with  one  hand 
on  the  chair  which  he  had  drawn  up  for  Mrs.  Rob- 
son,  said,  simply: 

"My  name  is  Stillman,  and  of  course  you  know 
Mrs.  Condor — the  lady  who  has  just  sung  for  us." 

Claire  gave  a  swift,  inclusive  glance.  Yes,  it 
was  the  same  woman  who  had  attempted  to  be 
guile  a  weary  audience  from  its  impending  reple 
tion;  at  close  range  one  could  not  escape  the  in 
tense  redness  of  her  hair  or  the  almost  immoral 
whiteness  of  the  shoulders  and  arms  which  she  was 
at  such  little  pains  to  conceal. 

"Stillman?"  Mrs.  Robson  was  fluttering  impor 
tantly.  "Not  the  old  Rincon  Hill  family?'" 

"Yes,  the  old  Rincon  Hill  family,"  the  man 
replied. 

Mrs.  Robson  sat  down  with  preening  self-satis 
faction.  Wearily  the  daughter  dropped  into  the 
seat  which  Mrs.  Condor  proffered.  The  name  of 

8 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Ned  Stillman  was  not  unfamiliar  to  any  San  Fran 
ciscan  who  scanned  the  social  news  with  even  a 
casual  glance,  and  Claire  had  a  vague  remembrance 
that  Mrs.  Condor  also  figured  socially,  but  in  a 
rather  more  inclusive  way  than  her  companion. 
At  all  events,  it  was  plain  that  her  mother,  with  un 
erring  feminine  insight,  had  placed  the  pair  to  her 
satisfaction.  Already  the  elder  woman  was  contriv 
ing  to  let  Stillman  know  something  of  her  antece 
dents.  She  was  Emily  Carrol,  also  of  Rincon  Hill, 
and  of  course  he  knew  her  two  sisters  —  Mrs. 
Thomas  Wynne  and  Mrs.  Edward  Finch-Brown! 
As  Stillman  returned  a  smiling  assurance  to  Mrs. 
Robson's  attempts  to  be  impressive,  a  young  woman 
in  white  arrived  with  ice-cream  and  messy  layer- 
cake.  Unconsciously  Claire  Robson  began  to  smile. 
She  could  not  have  said  why,  but  somehow  the  pres 
ence  of  Ned  Stillman  and  Mrs.  Condor  at  a  table 
spread  with  such  vacuous  delights  seemed  little 
short  of  ridiculous.  They  did  not  fit  the  picture 
any  more  '1ian  her  beetle-browed,  red-lipped 
Serbian  who  .  .  .  She  turned  deliberately  and 
swept  the  room  with  her  glance.  Of  course  he  had 
gone.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  would 
descend  to  the  level  of  such  puerile  feasting.  A 
sudden  contempt  for  everything  that  only  an  hour 
ago  seemed  so  desirable  rose  within  her,  and,  in 
answer  to  the  young  woman's  query  as  to  whether 
she  preferred  coffee  to  ice-cream,  she  answered  with 
lip-curling  aloofness: 

"Neither,  thank  you  ...  I  am  not  hungry." 
Stillman  looked  at  her  searchingly.     She  returned 
his  gaze  without  flinching. 
2  9 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  Robson  did  not  sleep  that  night.  She 
lay  for  hours,  quite  motionless,  staring  into  the 
gloom  of  her  narrow  bedroom,  her  mind  ruthlessly 
shaping  formless,  vague  intuitions  into  definite  con 
victions.  She  could  not  put  her  finger  upon  the 
precise  reason  for  her  inquietude.  Was  it  charge 
able  to  so  trivial  a  circumstance  as  a  stranger's 
formal  courtesy  or  had  something  more  subtle 
moved  her  ?  If  the  depths  of  her  isolation  had  been 
thrown  into  too  high  relief  by  the  almost  shameful 
sense  of  obligation  she  felt  toward  Stillman  for 
his  courtesy,  what  was  to  be  said  of  the  uniqueness 
of  the  solitary  position  which  the  Serbian  awarded 
her  by  singling  her  out  for  a  sympathetic  response  ? 
Could  it  be  that  a  vague  pity  had  stirred  him,  too  ? 
Had  things  reached  a  point  where  her  loneliness 
showed  through  the  threadbare  indifference  of  her 
glance?  In  short,  had  both  men  been  won  to  gal 
lantry  by  her  distress?  In  one  case,  at  least,  she 
decided  that  there  was  a  reasonable  chance  to 
doubt.  And  that  doubt  quickened  her  pulse  like 
May  wine. 

But  the  humiliation  of  her  last  encounter  with 
chivalry  stuck  with  profound  irritation.  She  re 
called  the  scene  again  and  again.  She  remembered 
her  contemptuous  silence  before  Stillman's  obvious 
suavities,  the  high,  assured  laugh  which  his  com 
panion,  Mrs.  Condor,  threw  out  to  meet  his  quiet 
sallies,  the  ruffling  satisfaction  of  her  mother,  chat 
tering  on  irrelevantly,  but  with  the  undisguised 
purpose  of  creating  a  proper  impression.  How 
easily  Stillman  must  have  seen  through  Claire's 
muteness  and  the  elder  woman's  eager  craving  for 

IO 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

an  audience!  And  all  the  time  Mrs.  Condor  had 
been  laughing,  not  ill-naturedly,  but  with  the  irony 
of  an  experienced  woman  possessing  a  sense  of 
humor. 

And  at  the  end,  when  the  four  had  left  the  church 
together,  to  be  whirled  home  in  Stillman's  car,  the 
sudden  nods  and  smiles  and  farewells  that  had 
blossomed  along  the  path  of  her  mother's  exit! 
Claire  could  have  laughed  it  all  away  if  her  mother 
had  not  betrayed  such  eagerness  to  drink  this  snob 
bish  flattery  to  the  lees.  .  .  . 

Claire's  father  had  never  entered  very  largely 
into  her  calculations,  but  to-night  her  readjusted 
vision  included  him.  Stubborn,  kind,  a  bit  weak, 
and  inclined  to  copying  poetry  in  a  red-covered 
album,  he  had  been  no  match  for  the  disillusion- 
ments  of  married  life.  Her  mother's  people  had 
felt  a  sullen  resentment  at  his  downfall — he  had 
taken  to  drink  and  died  ingloriously  when  Claire 
was  still  in  her  seventh  year.  Claire,  influenced 
by  the  family  traditions,  had  shared  this  resent 
ment.  But  now  she  found  herself  wondering 
whether  there  was  not  a  word  or  two  to  be  said  in 
his  behalf.  Her  father  had  been  a  cheap  clerk  in  a 
wholesale  house  when  he  had  married.  The  un 
certain  Carrol  fortunes  were  waning  swiftly  at  the 
time,  and  Emily  Carrol  had  been  thrown  at  him 
with  all  the  panic  that  then  possessed  a  public 
schooled  in  the  fallacy  that  marriage  was  a  woman's 
only  career.  The  result  was  to  have  been  expected. 
Extravagance,  debts,  too  much  family,  drink,  death 
— the  sequence  was  complete.  He  had  been  capt 
ured,  withered,  cast  aside,  by  a  tribe  that  had 

ii 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

not  even  had  the  decency  to  grant  his  memory 
the  kindness  of  an  excuse. 

Wide-eyed  and  restless,  Claire  Robson  felt  a  sud 
den  pity  for  her  father.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes; 
it  overwhelmed  her  to  discover  this  new  father  so 
full  of  human  failings  and  yet  so  full  of  human 
provocation.  In  her  twenty-four  years  of  life  she 
had  never  shed  a  tear  for  him,  or  felt  the  slightest 
pang  for  his  failure.  If  she  had  ever  doubted  the 
Carrol  viewpoint,  she  had  never  given  her  lack  of 
faith  any  scope.  She  had  taken  their  cast-off 
prejudices  and  threadbare  convictions  as  docilely 
as  she  had  once  received  their  stale  garments. 
She  had  shrunk  from  spiritual  independence  with 
all  the  obsequious  arrogance  of  a  poor  relation  at 
a  feast.  Her  diffidence,  her  self -consciousness,  her 
timidity,  were  the  outward  forms  of  an  inbred 
snobbery.  It  was  curious  how  suddenly  all  this 
was  made  clear  to  her.  .  .  . 

At  length  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep.  .  .  . 
When  she  awoke  the  room's  outlines  were  reviving 
before  the  advances  of  early  morning.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  caught  the  poetry  of  the 
new  day  at  first  hand.  For  years  she  had  reveled 
vicariously  in  the  delights  of  morning.  But  it  had 
always  been  to  her  a  thing  apart,  a  matter  which 
the  writers  of  romantic  verse  beheld  and  trans 
lated  for  the  benefit  of  late  sleepers.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  the  day  crawling  into  the 
light -well  of  her  Clay  Street  flat  was  lit  with  pre 
cisely  the  same  flame  that  colored  the  far-flung 
peaks  of  the  poet's  song.  And  instantly  a  phrase 
of  the  Serbian's  harangue  came  to  her — blood-red 

12 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

dawn !  He  had  repeated  these  words  over  and  over 
again,  and  somehow  under  the  heat  of  his  ardor 
and  longing  for  his  native  land  this  hackneyed 
phrase  took  on  its  real  and  dreadful  value.  In  the 
sudden  sweep  of  this  vital  remembrance,  Claire 
Robson  rose  for  a  moment  above  the  fretful  drip 
of  circumstance.  .  .  .  Blood -red  Dawn!  .  .  .  She 
threw  herself  back  upon  her  bed  and  shud 
dered.  .  .  . 

She  rose  at  seven  o'clock,  but  already  the  morn 
ing  had  grown  pallid  and  flecked  with  gray  clouds. 

An  apologetic  tap  came  at  the  door,  and  the 
.voice  of  Mrs.  Robson  repeating  a  formula  that  she 
never  varied: 

" Better  hurry,  Claire.  If  you  don't  you'll  be 
late  for  the  office!" 


CHAPTER  II 

A3  Claire  stepped  out  into  the  cold  sunlight  of 
early  November,  she  smiled  bitterly  at  the 
exaggeration  of  last  night's  mood.  After  the  first 
hectic  flush  of  dawn  there  is  nothing  so  sane  and 
sweet  and  commonplace  as  morning.  The  spec 
tacle  of  Mrs.  Finnegan,  who  lodged  in  the  flat 
below,  slopping  warm  suds  over  the  thin  marble 
steps,  added  a  final  note  of  homeliness,  which  di 
vorced  Claire  completely  from  heroics. 

1 ' Well,  Miss  Robson,  so  you  really  got  home, 
last  night,"  broke  from  the  industrious  neighbor 
as  she  straightened  up  and  tucked  her  lifted  skirts 
in  more  securely.  "I  thought  you  never  would 
come!  ...  A  package  came  from  New  York  for 
you.  The  man  nearly  banged  your  door  down. 
I  had  Finnegan  put  it  on  your  back  stoop.  .  .  .  It's 
from  that  cousin  of  yours,  I  guess.  I  was  so  ex 
cited  about  it  I  kept  wishing  you'd  get  home  early 
so  that  I  could  get  a  peep  at  all  the  pretty  things. 
But  I'll  run  up  just  as  soon  as  I  get  through  with 
the  breakfast  dishes." 

Claire  smiled  wanly.  "It  was  very  good  of  you 
to  take  all  that  trouble,  I'm  sure,  Mrs.  Finnegan!" 

"Oh,  bother  my  trouble!"  Mrs.  Finnegan  re 
sponded.  "I  just  knew  how  crazy  I'd  be  about  a 

14 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

box.  I  guess  we  women  are  all  alike,  Miss  Rob- 
son.  Anyway,  your  mother  and  I  are!" 

Mrs.  Finnegan  bent  over  her  task  again  with 
a  quick  exasperated  movement,  and  Claire  passed 
on.  Her  neighbor's  abrupt  rebuke  gave  Claire  a 
renewed  sense  of  exclusion.  She  had  meant  to  be 
warmly  appreciative,  but  she  knew  now  that  she  had 
been  only  coldly  polite.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  prospect  of  delving  through  a  box  of  Gertrude 
Sinclair's  discarded  finery  moved  her  this  morn 
ing  to  a  dull  fury.  She  felt  suddenly  tired  of  cast- 
offs,  of  compromise,  of  all  the  other  shabby  adjust 
ments  of  genteel  poverty.  And  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  office  of  the  Falcon  Insurance  Com 
pany  her  soul  was  seething  with  a  curious  and 
unreasonable  revolt.  The  feminine  office  force 
seemed  seething  also,  but  with  an  impersonal, 
quivering  excitement.  Nellie  Whitehead  had  been 
dismissed ! 

This  Nellie  Whitehead,  the  stenographer-in- 
chief,  was  big,  vigorous,  blond — vulgar,  energetic, 
vivid;  and  Miss  Munch,  her  assistant,  a  thin, 
hollow-chested  spinster,  who  loafed  upon  her  job 
so  that  she  might  save  her  sight  for  the  manufacture 
of  incredible  yards  of  tatting,  never  missed  an  op 
portunity  to  lift  her  eyes  significantly  behind  her 
superior's  back. 

"And  what  do  you  suppose?"  Miss  Munch  was 
querying  as  Claire  stepped  into  the  dressing-room. 
"She  told  Mr.  Flint  to  go  to  hell!  .  .  .  Yes,  posi 
tively,  she  used  those  very  words.  And  I  must  say 
he  was  a  gentleman  throughout  it  all.  He  told 
her  gently  but  firmly  that  her  example  in  the  office 

15 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

wasn't  what  it  should  be  and  that  in  justice  to  the 
other  girls  .  .  . 

Claire  turned  impatiently  away.  The  fiction  of 
Mr.  Flint's  belated  interest  in  the  morals  of  his  fem 
inine  office  force  was  unconvincing  enough  to  be 
irritating.  For  a  man  who  never  missed  an  oppor 
tunity  to  force  his  attentions,  he  was  showing  an 
amazingly  ethical  viewpoint.  On  second  thought, 
Claire  remembered  that  Miss  Munch  was  never 
the  recipient  of  Mr.  Flint's  attentions,  which  to 
the  casual  eye  might  have  seemed  innocent  enough 
— on  rainy  days  gallantly  bending  his  ample  girth 
in  a  rather  too  prolonged  attempt  to  slip  on  the 
girls'  rubbers,  insisting  on  the  quite  unnecessary 
task  of  incasing  them  in  their  jackets  and  smooth 
ing  the  sleeves  of  their  shirt-waists  in  the  process, 
flicking  imaginary  threads  where  the  feminine 
curves  were  most  opulent.  Not  that  Mr.  Flint 
was  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing;  he  played  the  part 
of  sheep,  but  he  needed  no  disguise  for  his  per 
formance;  he  merely  lived  up  to  a  sort  of  flock- 
mind  consciousness  where  women  were  concerned. 

The  group  clustered  about  Miss  Munch  broke 
up  at  the  approach  of  Mr.  Flint,  who  gave  a  signifi 
cant  glance  in  the  direction  of  Claire  Robson,  intent 
upon  her  morning  work.  But  the  excitement  per 
sisted  in  spite  of  the  scattered  auditors,  and  the 
fact  was  mysteriously  communicated  that  Miss 
Munch 's  interest  in  the  event  was  chargeable  to 
her  hopes.  It  seemed  impossible  to  Miss  Munch 
that  any  one  but  herself  could  succeed  to  the  vacant 
post  of  stenographer-in-chief. 

At  precisely  eleven  o'clock  the  buzzer  on  Claire 
16 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Robson's  desk  hummed  three  times.  This  an 
nounced  that  she  was  wanted  by  Mr.  Flint.  She 
gathered  her  note-book  and  pencils  and  answered 
the  call. 

Mr.  Flint  was  busy  at  the  telephone  when  Claire 
entered  the  private  office.  She  seated  herself  at 
the  flat  oak  table  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Flint's  office  bore  all  the  conventional  signs 
of  business — commissions  of  authority  from  insur 
ance  companies,  state  licenses  in  oak  frames,  an 
oil-painting  of  Thomas  Sawyer  Flint,  the  founder 
of  the  firm,  over  a  fireplace  that  maintained  its 
useless  dignity  in  spite  of  the  steam-radiator  near 
the  window.  On  his  desk  was  the  inevitable  pict 
ure  of  his  wife  framed  in  silver,  a  hand-illumined 
platitude  of  Stevenson,  an  elaborate  set  of  desk 
paraphernalia  in  beaten  brass  that  bore  little  evi 
dence  of  service.  In  two  green-glazed  bowls  of 
Japanese  origin,  roses  from  Mr.  Flint's  garden  at 
Yolanda  scattered  faint  pink  petals  on  the  Smyrna 
rug.  These  flowers  were  the  only  concession  to 
esthetics  that  Mr.  Flint  indulged.  In  spite  of  a 
masculine  distaste  for  carrying  flowers,  hardly  a  day 
went  by  when  he  did  not  appear  at  the  office  with 
a  huge  harvest  of  blossoms  from  his  country  home. 

Claire  was  bending  over,  intent  on  picking  up 
the  crumpled  rose-petals,  when  Mr.  Flint  finally 
spoke.  She  straightened  herself  slowly.  Her  un 
hurried  movements  had  a  certain  grace  that  did 
not  escape  the  man  opposite  her.  She  tossed  the 
bruised  leaves  into  a  waste-basket  and  reached  for 
her  pencil.  Her  heart  was  pounding,  but  she  faced 
Mr.  Flint  with  a  clear,  direct  gaze. 

17 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Miss  Robson,  of  course  you've  heard  all  about 
the  rumpus,"  Mr.  Flint  was  saying.  "I  had  to 
fire  Miss  Whitehead.  ...  I  think  you  can  fill 
the  biU." 

Claire  rose  without  replying.  Mr.  Flint  left  his 
seat  and  crossed  over  to  her. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  flicking  a  thread  from  her 
shoulder,  "that  you're  game.  .  .  .  Some  girls,  of 
course,  don't  care  a  damn  about  getting  on  ...  es 
pecially  if  there's  a  Johnny  somewhere  in  sight  with 
enough  cash  in  his  pocket  for  a  marriage  license." 

"I  am  very  much  taken  by  surprise,"  Claire 
faltered.  "You  see,  the  change  means  a  great 
deal  to  me." 

Mr.  Flint  moved  closer.  His  manner  was  inti 
mate  and  distasteful.  ' '  Sometimes  I  think  we  busi 
ness  men  ought  to  get  more  of  a  slant  on  our  em 
ployees.  .  .  .  You  know  what  I  mean,  not  exactly 
bothering  about  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  they 
take  in  their  coffee,  or  their  taste  in  after-dinner 
cheese  .  .  .  but,  well,  just  how  often  they  have 
to  resole  their  boots  and  turn  the  ribbons  on  their 
spring  bonnets.  .  .  .  Now,  in  Miss  Whitehead 's 
case  .  .  .  But  of  course  you're  not  interested  in 
Miss  Whitehead." 

"Why,  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  Stammered  Claire. 
Then,  as  she  reached  for  her  shorthand  book  she 
said,  more  confidently:  "To  be  quite  frank,  Mr. 
Flint,  I  liked  Miss  Whitehead  tremendously.  She 
was  so  alive  .  .  .  and  vivid." 

Flint  beamed.  "Do  you  know  why  I  picked 
you  instead  of  that  Munch  dame?  .  .  .  It's  be 
cause  you  had  all  the  frills  of  a  woman  and  none  of 

18 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  nastiness.  For  instance,  you  wouldn't  be  both 
ered  in  the  least  if  I  took  a  notion  to  overload  the 
office  with  another  pretty  girl.  ...  I've  watched 
you  for  some  time.  It  has  taken  me  six  months 
to  make  up  my  mind  to  fire  Miss  Whitehead  and 
boost  you  into  her  job." 

He  stood  with  an  air  of  condescending  arrogance, 
his  thumbs  bearing  down  heavily  on  his  trousers 
pockets,  his  broad  fingers  beating  a  self-satisfied 
tattoo  upon  his  thighs.  Claire  shrank  nearer  the 
table.  s  "You  mean,  Mr.  Flint,  that  you  dismissed 
Miss  Whitehead  merely  to  give  me  her  position?" 

Flint  smiled.  "Well,  now  you're  coming  down 
to  br^ss-headed  tacks.  I'm  not  keen  on  spelling 
out  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  anything  I  do.  .  .  . 
But  one  thing  is  certain  enough — if  Miss  Munch  had 
been  the  only  available  candidate  I  could  have 
stood  Miss  Whitehead  .  .  .  There  ain't  much  ques 
tion  about  that." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Flint!     I'm  sorry!" 

He  gave  a  wide  guffaw.  "That  only  makes  you 
all  the  more  of  a  corker!"  he  answered,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  in  narrow-eyed  satisfaction. 

She  escaped  into  the  outer  office,  flushed,  but 
with  her  head  thrown  back  in  an  attitude  of  in 
stinctive  defense,  and  the  next  instant  she  literally 
ran  into  the  arm  of  a  man. 

"Why,  Miss  Robson,  but  this  is  pleasant!  I'm 
just  dropping  in  to  see  Mr.  Flint." 

She  drew  back.  Mr.  Stillman  stood  smiling  be 
fore  her. 

Greetings  and  questions  flowed  with  all  the  genial 
ease  of  one  who  is  never  quite  taken  unawares. 

19 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire,  outwardly  calm,  felt  overcome  with  inner 
confusion.  She  passed  rapidly  to  her  desk  and  sat 
down. 

Miss  Munch  was  upon  her  almost  instantly. 

"Do  you  know  Ned  Stillman?"  Miss  Munch 
asked,  veiling  her  real  purpose. 

"Yes,"  replied  Claire,  with  uncomfortable  brev 
ity. 

"I  have  a  cousin  who  was  housekeeper  for  his 
wife's  father.  .  .  .  You  know  about  his  wife,  of 
course." 

Claire  lifted  her  clear  eyes  in  a  startled  glance 
that  was  almost  as  instantly  converted  into  a  look 
of  challenge. 

"Yes,"  she  lied. 

Miss  Munch  hesitated,  then  plunged  at  once  into 
the  issue  uppermost  in  her  mind.  "It's  too  bad 
you've  had  to  be  bothered  with  Flint's  dictation, 
Miss  Robson.  It  just  happens  I'm  writing  up  a 
long  home -office  report,  otherwise  I'm  sure  he 
wouldn't  have  annoyed  you." 

Claire  Robson  fixed  Miss  Munch  with  a  coldly 
polite  stare.  "You've  made  a  mistake,  Miss 
Munch.  Mr.  Flint  has  given  me  no  dictation." 
The  speech  in  itself  was  nothing,  but  Claire's  tone 
gave  it  unmistakable  point.  Miss  Munch  grew 
white  and  then  flushed.  She  turned  away  without 
a  word,  but  Claire  Robson  knew  that  in  a  twink 
ling  of  an  eye  she  had  gained  not  only  an  enemy,  but 
an  uncommon  one. 

That  night  Claire  took  an  unusually  long  way 
round  on  her  walk  home.  Her  path  from  the  Fal- 

20 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

con  Insurance  Company's  office  on  California 
Street  to  the  Clay  Street  flat  was  never  a  direct  one, 
first,  because  there  were  hills  to  be  avoided,  and, 
second,  because  Claire  found  the  streets  at  twilight 
too  full  of  charm  for  a  rapid  homeward  flight.  The 
year  was  on  the  wane  and  the  November  days  were 
coming  to  an  early  blackness.  Claire  reveled  in  the 
light-flooded  dusk  of  these  late  autumn  evenings. 
To  her,  the  city  became  a  vast  theater,  darkened 
suddenly  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  the  performers 
into  sharper  relief.  Most  clerks  made  their  way 
up  Montgomery  Street  toward  Market,  but  Claire 
climbed  past  the  German  Bank  to  Kearny  Street. 
She  liked  this  old  thoroughfare,  struggling  vainly 
to  pull  itself  up  to  its  former  glory.  The  Kearny 
Street  crowd  was  a  varying  quantity,  frankly  shabby 
or  flashily  prosperous,  as  far  south  as  Sutter  Street, 
suddenly  dignified  and  reserved  for  the  two  blocks 
beyond.  To-night  Claire  missed  the  direct  appeal 
of  the  streets  lined  with  bright  shops.  They  formed 
the  proper  background  for  her  breedings,  but  they 
scarcely  entered  into  her  mood.  She  could  not 
have  said  just  what  flight  her  mood  was  taking,  or 
upon  just  which  branch  her  thought  would  alight. 
She  was  confused  and  puzzled  and  vaguely  uneasy. 
She  had  a  sense  that  somehow,  somewhere,  a  door 
had  been  opened  and  that  a  strong,  devastating  wind 
was  clearing  the  air  and  bringing  dead  things  to 
ground  in  a  disorderly  shower.  She  was  stirred  by 
twilights  of  uneasiness.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  mo 
notonous  truce  of  noonday  had  been  darkened  by 
a  huge,  composite,  masculine  shadow,  made  up  in 
some  mysterious  way  of  the  ridiculous  Serbian  and 

21 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

his  blood-red  dawn,  and  this  man  Stillman,  who 
had  a  wife,  and  Flint,  with  hands  so  ready  to  flick 
threads  from  her  sloping  shoulders.  Yesterday  her 
outlook  had  been  peaceful  and  unhappy;  to-day  she 
felt  stimulation  of  an  impending  struggle.  She  was 
afraid,  and  yet  she  would  not  have  turned  back  for 
one  swift  moment.  And  suddenly  the  words  of 
Mrs.  Finnegan  recurred,  "I  guess  we  women  are 
all  alike."  Were  they? 

At  which  point  she  came  upon  a  pastry-shop  win 
dow  and  she  went  in  and  bought  a  half-dozen 
French  pastries.  The  thought  of  her  mother's 
pleasure  at  this  unusual  treat  brought  her  in  due 
time  smiling  to  her  threshold. 

Mrs.  Robson  was  not  in  her  accustomed  place  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs;  about  half-way  up  the  long 
flight  her  voice  sounded  triumphantly: 

1  'Oh,  Claire,  do  hurry  and  see  what  Gertrude  has 
sent!  Everything  is  perfectly  lovely." 

Claire  quickened  her  pace  and  gained  the  cramped 
living-room.  Thrown  about  in  a  sort  of  joyous  dis 
order,  Gertrude  Sinclair's  finery  quite  lit  up  the 
shabbiness.  Hats,  plumes,  scraps  of  vivid  silks, 
gilded  slippers,  a  spangled  fan — their  unrelated  viv 
idness  struck  Claire  as  fantastic  as  a  futurist  paint 
ing.  Her  mother  seemed  suddenly  young  again. 
Claire  wondered  whether,  after  the  toll  of  sixty-odd 
years,  she  could  be  moved  to  momentary  youth  by 
the  mere  sight  of  the  prettiness  that  was  quicken 
ing  her  mother's  pulse. 

Mrs.  Robson  held  up  a  filmy  evening  gown  of 
black  net  embroidered  with  a  rich  design  of  dull  gold. 
" Isn't  this  heavenly?"  she  demanded.  "And  it 

22 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

will  just  fit  you,  Claire.  I  think  Gertrude  has 
spread  herself  this  time." 

"Yes,  on  finery,  mother.  But  didn't  she  send 
anything  sensible?  What  possessed  her  to  load  us 
up  with  a  lot  of  things  we  can  never  possibly  get  a 
chance  to  wear?'* 

Claire  had  not  meant  to  be  disagreeable,  but 
there  was  rancor  in  her  voice.  Mrs.  Robson  cast 
aside  the  dress  with  the  carelessness  of  a  spoiled 
favorite;  she  always  adapted  her  manner  to  the 
tone  of  her  background. 

" Claire  Robson!"  she  cried,  good-naturedly. 
"You're  a  regular  old  woman!  I'm  sure  I  haven't 
much  to  be  cheerful  about,  but  I  just  won't  let  any 
thing  down  me!  ...  If  I  wanted  to,  I  could  give 
up  right  now.  Where  would  we  have  been,  I'd  like 
to  know,  if  I  hadn't  held  my  head  up?  Goodness 
knows,  my  folks  didn't  help  me.  If  they  had  had 
their  way,  I'd  been  out  manicuring  people's 
nails  and  washing  heads  for  a  living.  And  you  in 
an  orphan-asylum!  That's  what  my  people  did 
for  me!  As  it  is,  they  shoved  you  out  to  work. 
What  chance  have  you  of  meeting  nice  people  ?  No, 
Claire,  I  don't  care  how  they  have  treated  me,  but 
they  might  have  given  you  a  chance.  I'll  never  for 
give  them  for  that !  .  .  .  I  thought  last  night  when 
I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Condor  and  watching  you 
and  Mr.  Stillman  how  nice  it  would  have  been  if 
*.  .  .  Oh,  that  reminds  me!  Who  do  you  think  has 
been  here  to-day?  .  .  .  Mrs.  Towne!  She  came 
to  apologize  about  asking  us  to  move  our  seats  the 
other  night.  She  knows  the  Stillmans  well.  The 
old  people  were  pillars  of  the  Second  Church  in  the 

23 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

'sixties.  I  fancy  he  is  dancing  about  that  Mrs. 
Condor's  heels  a  bit.  Of  course,  as  Mrs.  Towne 
said,  she  wouldn't  be  likely  to  make  herself  a  per 
manent  feature  of  Second  Church  entertainments. 
But  now  in  war-times  anything  is  possible.  Mrs. 
Towne  was  telling  me  all  about  Stillman  and  his 
wife.  I  should  have  remembered,  but  somehow  I 
forgot.  Get  your  things  off  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

Claire  handed  her  mother  the  package  of  pastries. 
"I  heard  about  it  to-day,"  she  said,  coldly. 

4 'But  Mrs.  Towne  knows  the  whole  thing  from 
A  to  Z,"  insisted  Mrs.  Robson,  genially. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  the  details,"  Claire  re 
turned,  doggedly. 

Mrs.  Robson's  face  wore  a  puzzled,  almost  a 
harried,  expression.  Claire  moved  away.  Her 
mother  gave  a  shrug  and  renewed  her  efforts  to 
drag  further  finery  from  the  mysterious  depths  of 
the  treasure-box.  Her  daughter  cast  a  last  incu 
rious  glance  back.  The  glow  on  Mrs.  Robson's 
face,  which  Claire  had  mistaken  for  youth,  seemed 
now  a  thing  hectic  and  unpleasant,  and  gave  an 
uncanny  sense  of  a  skeleton  sitting  among  gauds 
and  baubles. 

A  feeling  of  isolation  swept  Claire,  such  as  she 
had  never  experienced.  The  person  who  should 
have  been  closest  suddenly  had  become  a  stranger. 
.  She  went  into  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  following  week  Claire  was  surprised  to  find 
a  letter  on  her  desk  at  the  office.  The  few 
written  favors  that  came  her  way  usually  were  ad 
dressed  to  the  Clay  Street  flat,  so  that  she  was  puz 
zled  by  this  innovation  and  the  unfamiliar  hand 
writing.  Glancing  swiftly  at  the  signature,  she  was 
surprised  to  see  the  name  "Lily  Condor,"  scrawled 
loosely  at  the  foot  of  the  note.  It  seemed  that 
Mrs.  Condor  was  giving  a  little  musicale  in  Ned 
Stillman's  apartments  on  the  following  Friday  night, 
and,  if  one  could  believe  such  a  thing,  the  lady  im 
plied  that  the  evening  would  scarcely  be  complete 
without  the  presence  of  Claire  Robson — or,  to  put 
it  more  properly,  Claire  Robson  and  her  mother. 

As  Claire  had  scarcely  said  a  half-dozen  words 
to  Mrs.  Condor  on  the  night  of  the  Red  Cross  con 
cert,  this  invitation  seemed  little  short  of  extraor 
dinary.  But,  as  Claire  thought  it  over,  she  re 
called  that  there  had  been  some  general  conversation 
about  music,  in  which  she  had  admitted  a  discreet 
passion  for  this  form  of  entertainment,  even  going 
so  far  as  to  confess  that  she  played  the  piano  her 
self  upon  occasion.  Her  first  impulse,  clinched  by 
the  familiar  feminine  excuse  that  she  had  nothing 
suitable  to  wear,  was  to  send  her  regrets.  At  once 
3  25 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

she  thought  of  the  scorned  finery  that  Gertrude 
Sinclair  had  included  in  her  last  box,  and  the  more 
she  thought  about  it  the  more  convinced  she  be 
came  that  she  had  no  real  reason  for  refusing. 
But  a  swift,  strange  regret  that  her  mother  had  been 
included  in  the  invitation  took  the  edge  off  her 
anticipations.  She  tried  to  dismiss  this  feeling, 
but  it  grew  more  definite  as  the  morning  pro 
gressed. 

For  days  Claire  had  been  striking  at  the  shackles 
of  habit  with  a  rancor  bred  of  disillusionment. 
She  had  been  on  tiptoe  for  new  and  vital  experi 
ences,  and  yet,  for  any  outward  sign,  her  life  bid 
fair  to  escape  the  surge  of  any  torrential  circum 
stance.  Particularly,  at  the  office,  things  had  gone 
on  smoothly.  The  other  clerks  had  accepted 
Claire's  advancement  without  either  protest  or 
enthusiasm.  Even  Miss  Munch  had  veiled  her 
resentment  behind  the  saving  trivialities  of  daily 
intercourse.  She  had  gone  so  far  as  to  introduce 
Claire  to  her  cousin,  a  Mrs.  Richards,  who  had 
come  in  at  the  noon  hour  for  a  new  tatting  design. 
This  cousin  was  a  large,  red-faced  woman,  with  an 
aggressively  capable  manner.  She  had  the  quick, 
ferret -like  eyes  of  Miss  Munch  and  the  loose  mouth 
of  a  perpetual  gossip. 

" She's  the  one  I  told  you  about  the  other  day," 
Miss  Munch  had  explained  later — "the  house 
keeper  for  your  friend  Stillman's  father-in-law." 
She  gave  nasty  emphasis  to  this  trivial  speech. 

Flint  had  been  direct  and  business-like  almost 
to  the  point  of  bruskness.  But  Claire  knew  that 
such  moods  were  not  unusual,  so  she  took  little 

26 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

stock  in  the  ultimate  significance  of  his  restrained 
manner. 

Perhaps  the  most  indefinable  change  had  come 
over  Claire's  home  life.  Her  mother's  unfailing 
string  of  trivial  gossip,  formerly  not  without  a  cer 
tain  interest,  now  scarcely  held  her  to  even  polite 
attention.  Indeed,  her  self-absorbed  silence,  while 
Mrs.  Robson  poured  out  the  latest  news  about  Mrs. 
Finnegan's  second  sister's  husband's  mother — who 
was  suddenly  stricken  with  some  incurable  dis 
ease,  made  all  the  more  mysterious  by  the  fact 
that  its  nature  was  not  divulged — was  so  apparent 
that  her  mother,  goaded  on  to  a  mild  exasperation, 
would  ask,  significantly: 

"What's  the  matter,  Claire?  Have  you  a  head 
ache?" 

Mrs.  Robson  was  never  so  happy  as  in  the  dis 
covery  of  some  one  with  a  mysterious  disease, 
particularly  if  the  victim's  relatives  were  loath  to 
discuss  the  issue. 

"They  think  they  fool  me!"  she  would  say,  tri 
umphantly,  to  Claire,  "but  I  guess  I  know  what 
ails  her.  .  .  .  Didn't  her  mother,  and  her  uncle, 
and  her  sister's  oldest  child  die  of  consumption? 
I  tell  you  it's  in  the  family.  The  last  time  I  saw 
her  she  nearly  coughed  her  head  off." 

Not  that  Mrs.  Robson  was  unsympathetic ;  brought 
face  to  face  with  suffering,  she  blossomed  with  every 
impulsive  tenderness,  but  her  experiences  had  con 
firmed  her  in  pessimism,  and  every  fresh  tragedy 
testified  to  the  soundness  of  her  faith.  Her  pride 
at  diagnosing  people's  ills  and  pronouncing  their 
death-sentences  was  almost  professional.  And  she 

27 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

had  an  irritating  way  of  making  comments  such 
as  this: 

"Well,  Claire,  I  see  that  old  Mrs.  Talbot  is  dead 
at  last!  ...  I  knew  she  wouldn't  live  another 
winter.  They'll  feel  terribly,  no  doubt;  but,  of 
course,  it  is  a  great  relief.'* 

Or: 

"Why,  here  is  the  death  notice  of  Isaac  Rice! 
I  thought  he  died  years  ago.  My,  but  he  was  a  trial ! 
What  a  blessing!" 

This  was  the  type  of  conversation  that  Claire 
was  finding  either  empty  of  meaning  or  illumi 
nating  to  the  point  of  annoyance.  What  amazed 
her  was  the  fact  that  she  had  remained  blind  so 
long  to  the  slightest  of  the  conversational  food  upon 
which  she  had  been  fed. 

Claire  did  not  tell  her  mother  about  the  invita 
tion  to  Mrs.  Condor's  musical  evening. 

"I'll  wait/'  she  said  to  herself.  "Thursday  will 
be  time  enough. ' '  Although  why  delay  would  prove 
advantageous  was  not  particularly  apparent. 

On  Wednesday  night  at  the  dinner-table,  Mrs. 
Robson.  as  if  still  puzzled  at  her  daughter's  altered 
mood,  said,  rather  cautiously: 

"There's  to  be  a  reception  at  the  church  on  Fri 
day  night." 

"For  whom?"  inquired  Claire,  with  pallid  interest. 

"I  didn't  quite  catch  the  name.  .  .  .  Some 
woman  back  from  France.  She's  been  nursing  in 
one  of  the  British  hospitals.  She's  to  get  Red  Cross 
work  started  at  the  church.  It  seems  San  Fran 
cisco  is  a  bit  slow  over  taking  up  the  work,  but, 
then,  you  know,  we're  poked  off  here  in  a  corner  and 

28 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

I  suppose  we  don't  quite  realize  yet.  .  .  .  Anyway, 
Mrs.  Towne  wants  us  to  help  with  the  coffee.  She 
says  you  should  have  been  in  the  church-work  long 
ago.  You  look  so  self-contained  and  efficient.  .  .  . 
I  told  her  we  would  be  there  at  half  past  seven  and 
get  the  dishes  into  shape." 

Claire's  heart  beat  violently.  " Friday  night? 
I'm  sorry,  mother;  I  have  another  engagement." 

' '  Another  engagement  ?  Why,  Claire,  how  funny ! 
You  never  said  anything  about  it.  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  Mrs.  Towne." 

Claire  felt  calm  again.     "Just  tell  her  the  truth." 

"But  she'll  think  so  strange  that  I  didn't  know 
.  .  .  that  I  ..." 

"You  shouldn't  have  spoken  for  me  until  you 
found  out  whether  I  was  willing." 

"Willing!  Willing!  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  be 
anything  else.  I've  been  trying  to  get  you  in  with 
the  right  people  at  the  church  for  the  last  fifteen 
years.  I've  tried  so  hard  ..." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  know,"  said  Claire,  patiently. 
"But  don't  you  see?  That's  just  it.  You've  tried 
too  hard." 

Mrs.  Robson  began  to  whimper  discreetly. 
"How  you  do  talk,  Claire!  I  declare  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  I  suppose  you're  bitter  about 
Mrs.  Towne  the  other  night.  I  felt  so  at  first,  but 
I  can  see  now  we  were  at  the  wrong  table.  And, 
after  all,  everything  came  out  beautifully.  We  sat 
with  Mr.  Stillman,  and  that  had  a  very  good  effect, 
I  can  tell  you.  Especially  when  everybody  saw 
us  leave  with  him.  Why,  it  brought  Mrs.  Towne 
to  her  feet." 

29 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Yes,  and  that's  the  humiliating  part  of  it." 

"Well,  Claire,  when  you've  lived  as  long  as  I  have 
you  won't  be  so  uppish  about  making  compromises," 
flung  back  Mrs.  Robson.  "Of  course,  if  you've 
got  another  engagement,  you've  got  another  en 
gagement,  but  if  ..." 

"I  wouldn't  have  gone,  anyway.  I'm  through 
with  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Why,  Claire,  how  can  you!  It's  your  duty, 
now! — with  your  country  at  war — and  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  Even  that  dreadful  Serbian  the  other  night 
made  that  plain." 

"I'll  go  with  you  to  church  on  Sundays,  of  course, 
but—" 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  wailed  Mrs.  Robson.  "At 
least  you  might  think  of  me!  I've  not  had  much 
pleasure  in  my  life,  goodness  knows,  and  now  just 
as  I  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Robson  broke  off  abruptly  on  a  flood  of 
tears.  Two  weeks  ago  these  tears  would  have  over 
whelmed  Claire.  As  it  was,  she  sat  calmly  stir 
ring  her  tea,  surprised  and  a  little  ashamed  of  her 
coldness.  The  truth  was  that  Claire  Robson  was 
feeling  all  the  fanatical  cruelty  that  comes  with 
sudden  conviction.  The  forms  of  her  new  faith 
had  hardened  too  quickly  and  left  outlines  sharp 
and  uncompromising. 

For  years  Claire  had  found  shelter  from  the  glare 
of  middle-class  snobbery  beating  about  her  head, 
by  shrinking  into  her  mother's  inadequate  shadow 
as  a  desert  bird  shrinks  into  the  thin  shadow  of  a 
dry  reed  by  some  burned-out  watercourse.  Now  a 
full  noon  of  disillusionment  had  annihilated  this 

30 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

shadow  and  given  her  the  courage  of  necessity. 
And  there  was  something  more  than  courage — 'there 
was  an  eagerness  to  stand  alone  in  the  common 
place  words  with  which  she  sought  to  temper  her 
refusal  to  assist  at  the  coming  church  reception : 

"I  can't  see  any  good  reason,  mother,  why  you 
shouldn't  go  and  help  Mrs.  Towne.  .  .  .  What  have 
my  plans  to  do  with  it?" 

To  which  her  mother  answered : 

"I  do  so  hate  to  be  seen  at  such  places  alone, 
Claire." 

Claire  made  no  reply.  She  did  not  want  to  give 
her  mother's  indecision  a  chance  to  crystallize  into 
a  definite  stand.  She  knew  by  long  experience 
that  if  this  happened  it  would  be  fatal.  But  in 
a  swift  flash  of  decision  Claire  made  up  her  mind 
for  one  thing — she  would  either  go  to  Mrs.  Condor's 
evening  alone  or  she  would  send  her  regrets. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BY  a  series  of  neutral  subterfuges  and  tactful 
evasions  Claire  PvObson  won  her  point — she 
went  to  the  Condor  musicale  at  Ned  Stillman's 
apartments  alone,  and  on  that  same  night  her 
mother  wended  a  rather  grudging  way  to  the 
Second  Presbyterian  Church  reception. 

Acting  under  her  mother's  advice,  Claire  timed 
her  arrival  for  nine  o'clock,  an  hour  which  seemed 
incredibly  late  to  one  schooled  in  the  temperate 
hour  of  church  socials.  Mrs.  Condor  herself 
opened  the  door  in  answer  to  Claire's  ring. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  but  I  am  glad  to  see  you!"  burst 
from  the  elder  woman  as  she  waved  her  in.  But 
she  did  not  so  much  as  mention  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Robson,  and  Claire  was  divided  between  a  feeling 
of  wounded  family  pride,  and  gratification  at  the 
intuition  which  had  warned  her  to  leave  her  mother 
to  her  own  devices.  More  people  arrived  on  Claire's 
heels,  and  in  the  lively  bustle  she  was  left  to  shed 
her  wraps  in  one  of  the  bedrooms.  Her  heart  was 
pounding  with  reaction  at  her  outwardly  self- 
contained  entrance.  She  let  her  rather  shabby 
cloak  slip  to  the  floor,  revealing  a  strange,  new 
Claire  resplendent  in  the  gold-embroidered  gown 
that  had  once  so  stirred  her  rancor.  For  a  brief 

32 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

instant  she  had  an  impulse  to  gather  the  discarded 
wrap  securely  about  her  and  make  a  quick  exit. 
A  swooning  fear  at  the  thought  of  meeting  a  room 
ful  of  people  assailed  her.  But  there  succeeded 
a  courage  born  of  the  realization  that  they  all  would 
be  strangers.  With  a  sense  of  bravado  she  stepped 
out  into  the  entrance  hall  again. 

Ned  Stillman  came  forward.  She  halted  and 
waited  for  him.  His  face  had  lit  with  a  suJden 
pleasure,  which  told  Claire  that  for  once  in  her  life 
her  presence  roused  positive  interest.  He  in 
quired  after  her  health,  why  her  mother  had  not 
come,  whether  the  abominable  fog  was  clearing. 
His  easy  formality  put  her,  as  usual,  completely  at 
ease. 

It  was  only  when  he  asked  her,  with  the  most 
inconsequential  tone  in  the  world,  "whether  she 
could  read  music  at  sight"  that  a  sinking  fear  came 
over  her.  And  yet  she  found  courage  enough  to 
be  truthful  and  say  yes. 

"That's  fine!"  he  returned.  "Our  accompanist 
hasn't  come  yet  and  we  want  to  start  off  with  a 
song  or  two." 

From  this  moment  on  the  evening  impressed 
itself  on  Claire  in  a  series  of  blurred  hectic  pict 
ures.  .  .  .  She  knew  that  Stillman  was  leading 
her  toward  the  piano,  but  the  living-room  and  its 
toned  lights  gave  her  a  curious  sense  of  unreality. 
She  seated  herself  before  the  white  keyboard  and 
folded  her  hands  with  desperate  resignation  while 
she  waited  for  Stillman  to  dictate  the  next  move. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Condor,"  Stillman  explained, 
as  that  lady  came  up  to  them,  "we  sha'n't  have  to 

33 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

wait  for  Flora  Menzies.  Miss  Robson  will  accom 
pany  you." 

Claire  sat  unmoved.  She  was  beyond  so  trivial 
a  sensation  as  anxiety.  Stillman  drifted  away; 
Mrs.  Condor  began  to  run  through  the  sheet  music 
lying  on  the  piano. 

"Of  course  you  know  Schumann,  Miss  Robson. 
Shall  we  start  at  once?  How  is  the  light?  If 
you  xnoved  your  stool  a  little — so.  There,  that's 
better." 

Claire  did  not  reply.  She  looked  at  the  music 
before  her.  She  was  conscious  that  it  was  a  piece 
she  knew,  although  its  name  registered  no  other 
impression.  She  began  to  play.  The  opening  bars 
almost  startled  her.  She  felt  a  hush  fall  over  the 
noisy  room.  Her  fingers  stumbled — she  caught 
the  melody  again  with  staggering  desperation. 
Mrs.  Condor  was  singing.  .  .  .  The  room  faded; 
even  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Condor's  voice  became 
remote.  Claire  had  a  desire  to  laugh. 

All  manner  of  strange,  disconnected  thoughts 
ran  through  her  head.  She  remembered  a  doll 
she  had  broken  years  ago  and  buried  with  great 
pomp  and  circumstance,  a  pink  parasol  that  had 
been  given  her  as  a  child,  the  gigantic  and  respect 
able  wig  which  had  incased  the  head  of  her  old 
German  music-teacher,  Frau  Pfaff.  And  as  she 
played  on  and  on  the  music  further  evoked  the 
memory  of  this  worthy  lady  who  had  given  her 
services  in  exchange  for  lodgings  in  an  incredibly 
small  hall  bedroom,  with  certain  privileges  at  the 
kitchen  stove.  And  pictures  of  this  irritating 
woman  rose  before  her,  stewing  dried  fruit,  or  pre- 
34 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

paring  sour  beef,  or  borrowing  the  clothes  boiler 
for  a  perennial  wash.  What  compromises  her 
mother  had  made  to  give  her  child  the  gentle  ac 
complishments  that  Mrs.  Robson  associated  with 
breeding!  It  came  to  Claire  that  it  was  almost 
cruel  to  have  denied  this  mother  a  share  in  the 
triumphs  of  that  evening.  And  with  that,  she  real 
ized  that  Mrs.  Condor  had  ceased  singing.  A  hum 
broke  loose,  followed  by  applause.  Claire  grew 
faint.  Her  head  began  to  swirl.  She  clutched 
the  piano  stool  and  by  sheer  terror  at  the  thought 
of  creating  a  scene  she  managed  to  keep  her  con 
sciousness  as  she  felt  Mrs.  Condor's  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  and  heard  a  voice  that  just  missed  being 
patronizing : 

"My  dear,  you  did  it  beautifully." 

Claire  longed  to  burst  into  tears.  .  . 

The  concert  was  over  shortly  after  eleven  o'clock. 
Besides  Mrs.  Condor,  there  had  been  a  'cellist,  very 
masculine  in  his  looks  but  rather  forceless  in  his 
playing,  and  a  young,  frail  girl  who  brought  great 
breadth  and  vigor  to  her  interpretations  at  the 
piano.  But  Claire  was  really  too  excited  for  calm 
enjoyment.  Supper  followed — creamed  minced 
chicken  and  extraordinarily  thin  sandwiches,  and 
a  dry,  pale  wine  that  Claire  found  at  first  rather 
distasteful.  Claire  sat  with  a  little  group  composed 
of  Mrs.  Condor,  Ned  Stillman,  a  fashionable  young 
man,  Phil  Edington,  who  frankly  confessed  bore 
dom  at  all  things  musical  except  one-steps  and  fox 
trots,  and  two  or  three  artistic-looking  souls  who 
pretended  to  be  quite  shocked  by  young  Edington's 
frankness. 

35 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Conversation  veered  naturally  to  the  subject  of 
the  war.  Edington  had  tried  for  a  commission  in 
an  officers'  training-camp  and  failed.  He  was  ex 
traordinarily  frank  about  it  all,  and  good-natured 
at  the  chaffing  that  Mrs.  Condor  and  Stillman  threw 
at  him. 

"I'm  going  to  wait  now  and  be  drafted,"  he  an 
nounced.  "As  long  as  I  failed  to  make  a  high  grade 
I  want  to  begin  at  the  bottom  and  see  the  whole 
picture." 

Claire  rather  waited  for  a  word  from  Stillman  as 
to  his  convictions  on  the  subject.  Of  course  one 
could  see  that  he  was  over  the  draft  age,  still  .  .  . 
For  the  most  part  she  was  silent,  but  happy  and 
content.  By  contributing  her  share  to  the  evening's 
entertainment  she  had  justified  her  presence.  Wine 
as  a  factor  in  midnight  suppers  was  a  new  but 
not  a  revolutionary  experience  to  Claire  Robson, 
but  she  gasped  a  bit  when  the  maid  passed  cig 
arettes  to  the  ladies.  And  yet  she  felt  a  delicious 
sense  of  being  a  party  to  something  quite  daring 
and  outre,  although  she  did  not  have  either  cour 
age  or  skill  to  enjoy  one  of  the  slender,  gold- 
tipped  delights. 

The  time  for  departure  finally  came.  Claire 
rose  reluctantly.  Mrs.  Condor,  slipping  one  arm 
in  Phil  Edington 's  and  the  other  in  Claire's,  saun 
tered  with  them  toward  the  entrance  hall. 

"I  say,"  ventured  Edington  as  Stillman  caught 
up  to  the  group.  "What's  the  matter  with  just 
us  four  dropping  down  to  the  Palace  for  a  whirl 
or  two?" 

Claire  stared.  She  had  not  grown  used  to  the 
36 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

novelty  of  being  included,  but  any  instinctive  ob 
jections  to  the  plan  were  promptly  silenced  by 
Mrs.  Condor's  enthusiastic  approval. 

They  arrived  at  the  Palace  Hotel  shortly  before 
midnight.  The  Rose  Room  was  crowded.  All  the 
tables  seemed  filled,  and  Claire  had  a  moment  of 
disappointment  caused  by  the  fear  that  their  party 
would  be  unable  to  gain  admittance.  But  young 
Edington's  presence  soon  set  any  uneasiness  on 
that  score  at  rest,  and  a  place  was  evolved  with 
deftness  and  despatch.  The  novelty  of  the  situ 
ation  to  Claire  was  nothing  compared  with  her 
matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  it.  She  was  neither 
self-conscious  nor  timid.  Her  three  companions 
had  a  way  of  tacitly  including  her  in  even  their  triv 
ial  chatter  that  was  unmistakable,  though  hard  to 
define.  She  felt  that  she  was  one  of  them,  and  she 
blossomed  in  this  strange  new  warmth  like  a  chilled 
blossom  at  the  final  approach  of  a  belated  spring. 
All  evening  her  starved  sense  of  self-importance  had 
been  feeding  greedily  upon  the  compliments  that 
had  come  her  way.  There  had  been  her  mother's 
rather  apologetic  words  of  approval  at  her  appear 
ance,  to  begin  with,  then  Mrs.  Condor's  appreci 
ation  at  the  piano,  and  finally  a  word  dropped  by 
one  of  the  women  who  had  shared  a  mirror  with 
her  at  the  hour  of  departure. 

''How  do  you  manage  your  hair,  Miss  Robson?" 
the  other  had  said,  digging  viciously  at  her  shifting 
locks  with  a  hairpin.  *  *  I  do  declare  you're  the  only 
woman  in  the  room  that  looks  presentable." 

But  it  was  Edington's  words  to  Stillman  while 
they  stood  waiting  for  the  hotel  attendants  to  pre- 
37 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

pare  the  table  that  brought  a  quickened  beat  to 
her  heart.  The  conversation  was  low  and  not 
meant  for  her  ears,  but  her  senses  were  too  sharp 
ened  to  miss  Edington's  furtive  words  as  he  whis 
pered  to  Stillman: 

"Where  did  .  .  .  amazing  .  .  .  Miss  Robson?" 

Claire  did  not  catch  the  reply  which  must  have 
also  been  something  of  a  query,  but  she  heard  Ed- 
ington  continue. 

"Well  ...  a  little  too  silent,  I  must  admit. 
.  .  .  No,  I  don't  dislike  'em  that  way  .  .  .  but 
I'm  afraid  of  them." 

Stillman  answered  with  a  low  laugh. 

They  sat  down.  Edington  ordered  wine.  The 
crowd  at  the  tables  was  rather  a  mixed  one.  There 
was  plenty  of  elaborate  gowning  among  the  groups 
of  formal  diners  who  had  prolonged  their  feasting 
into  the  supper  hour,  but  many  casuals,  drift 
ing  in  for  a  few  drinks  and  a  dance  or  two,  robbed 
the  scene  of  its  earlier  brilliance. 

The  orchestra  struck  up  a  one-step.  Claire  de 
nied  Stillman  the  dance,  explaining  that  she  knew 
none  of  the  new  steps,  and  he  whirled  away  with 
Mrs.  Condor.  Edington,  robbed  of  his  chance, 
pouted  unashamed. 

"I  say,  Miss  Robson,  can't  you  do  a  one-step — 
really?  There  isn't  anything  to  it!  Come  on — 
try;  I'll  pull  you  through." 

Claire's  knowledge  of  dancing  was  instinctive, 
but  not  a  matter  of  much  practice,  yet  his  distress 
was  so  comic  that  she  relented.  She  wondered  if 
he  could  feel  her  trembling  as  they  swung  into  the 
dance.  She  stumbled  once  or  twice  from  timidity, 

38 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

but  Edington  guided  unerringly.     Half-way  round 
she  suddenly  struck  the  proper  swing. 

"There — that's  it,"  cried  Edington,  enthusi 
astically.  "Now  you've  got  it!  Fine!" 

His  praise  mounted  to  her  brain  like  a  heady 
wine,  and  suddenly,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  all 
the  repressed  youth  within  her  awoke  with  a  sweet 
and  terrible  joy.  .  .  .  They  danced  madly,  per 
fectly,  the  rhythm  entering  into  them  like  some 
thing  at  once  fluid  and  flaming.  Her  ecstasy 
awoke  a  vague  response  in  her  partner,  who  bent 
forward  as  he  kept  repeating,  monotonously: 

"And  you  said  you  couldn't,  Miss  Robson! 
Fancy,  you  said  you  couldn't!" 

The  music  stopped  abruptly  with  a  crash.  Some 
of  the  dancers  made  their  way  leisurely  back  among 
the  tables,  but  the  most  of  them  wandered  about 
the  polished  floor,  clapping  insistent  hands  for  an 
encore.  In  this  brief  interlude,  groups  arrived  and 
departed.  The  musicians  lifted  their  instruments 
to  chin  and  lip,  struck  an  opening  chord;  couples 
began  to  whirl  and  glide.  Claire  Robson,  palpi 
tant  and  eager,  followed  Edington's  lead,  but  almost 
at  the  first  moment  of  their  rhythmic  flight  they 
came  crashing  into  the  overcoated  bulk  of  a  man 
cutting  across  the  corner  of  the  ballroom  in  an 
attempt  at  a  swift  exit.  A  smothered  protest  es 
caped  Edington,  and  Claire  detached  herself  from 
her  partner  long  enough  to  see  the  offender  bow 
very  low  and  hear  his  apology  in  a  voice  and  manner 
that  seemed  curiously  familiar: 

1 '  I  beg  your  pardon.  Pray  forgive  me !  I  should 
have  known  better." 

39 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  interrupted  dan 
cers  were  sweeping  on  again,  and  the  apologetic 
stranger,  hat  in  hand,  turning  for  a  farewell  look 
at  the  pair.  Claire  Robson  felt  an  up-leap  of  the 
heart;  a  fresh  ecstasy  quickened  her.  It  was  the 
Serbian! 

They  finished  the  dance  almost  opposite  their 
table  and  were  met  by  a  patter  of  applause  from 
Mrs.  Condor  and  Stillman,  who  were  already  seated. 

Claire  was  flaming  with  embarrassment  as  she 
faced  Stillman. 

"I  hope  you'll  understand,  Mr.  Stillman,"  she 
faltered.  "But  Mr.  Edington  seemed  willing  to 
risk  my  ignorance." 

Mrs.  Condor  turned  Claire's  plaintive  apology 
into  a  covert  attack  upon  Stillman 's  courage,  but 
Stillman  rescued  Claire  from  further  confusion  by 
laughing  back: 

"Well,  I'll  have  my  revenge  on  Edington.  I'll 
grant  him  all  the  one-steps,  but  he  can't  have  any 
of  the  waltzes,  Miss  Robson." 

The  waiter  began  to  pour  out  the  champagne. 
Claire  settled  back  in  her  seat  with  a  feeling  of  de^ 
lightful  languor.  The  dance  had  released  all  the 
pent-up  emotions  that  a  night  of  vivid  sensations 
had  called  into  her  life.  She  had  come  into  the 
Rose  Room  of  the  Palace  Hotel  quivering  in  the 
leash  of  a  restrained  enjoyment;  it  had  taken  the 
quick  lash  of  opportunity  to  send  her  spirits  hurtling 
forward  in  wild  and  headlong  abandon.  She  lifted 
her  wine-glass  in  answer  to  the  upraised  glasses  of 
her  companions,  and  the  thought  flashed  over  her 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  have  quite 

40 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

her  old  vision  again.  In  every  life  there  are  culmi 
nating  moments  of  joy  or  sorrow  which  either  clear 
or  dim  the  horizon,  and  Claire  felt  that  such  mo 
ment  was  now  hers. 

Stillman  rose  promptly  in  his  seat  at  the  first 
strains  of  the  waltz,  which  proved  to  be  the  next 
number.  Claire  stepped  out  upon  the  floor  with 
confidence. 

She  did  not  need  any  word  of  reassurance  this 
time  to  tell  her  that  her  dancing  was  more  than 
acceptable,  and,  true  to  her  brief  experience  with 
Stillman,  he  refrained  from  voicing  the  obvious. 
They  had  begun  the  dance  promptly  and  for  the 
first  whirl  about  they  had  the  floor  almost  to  them 
selves.  Claire's  discreet  sidelong  glances  detected 
many  approving  nods  in  their  direction;  people 
were  noticing  them  and  making  favorable  comment. 
.  .  .  The  floor  filled,  but  even  in  the  crowd  Claire 
had  a  sense  that  she  and  her  partner  were  standing 
out  distinctly. 

The  very  nature  of  the  waltz  contrasted  sharply 
with  the  one-step.  There  was  less  abandon  and 
more  art.  The  first  dance  had  expressed  a  primi 
tive  emotion;  the  present  slow  and  measured  whirl 
a  discriminating  sensation.  And  slowly,  under  the 
spell  of  Stillman's  calm  and  yet  strangely  glowing 
manner,  Claire  recovered  her  poise.  All  night  she 
had  been  inhaling  every  fresh  delight  rapturously 
with  the  closed  eyes  and  open  senses  that  one  brings 
to  the  enjoyment  of  blossoms  heavy  with  perfume. 
It  took  Stillman's  influence  to  rob  the  hours  of 
their  swooning  delight  by  recapturing  her  self -con 
sciousness.  Things  became  at  once  orderly  and 
4  41 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

reasonable.  And  as  he  led  her  back  to  their  table 
she  felt  the  flame  within  cease  its  flarings  and  be 
come  steady,  with  a  pleasurable  glow.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  felt  uneasy,  as  if  she  were  being  trapped 
by  something  sweetfully  insidious.  Slowly,  almost 
cautiously,  she  withdrew  her  arm  from  his.  He 
made  no  comment;  it  was  doubtful  if  he  really 
noticed  her  recoil. 

Long  past  its  appointed  time  the  hall  light  in  the 
Robson  flat  continued  to  burn  dimly.  Mrs.  Rob- 
son,  sleepless  and  a  bit  anxious,  waited  alertly  for 
the  sound  of  Claire's  key  in  the  door.  The  welcome 
•click  came  finally,  succeeded  by  the  unmistakable 
slam  of  an  automobile  door  and  the  sharp,  quick 
note  of  a  machine  speeding  up. 

"She's  come  home  in  Stillman's  car,"  flashed 
through  Mrs.  Robson 's  mind,  as  she  sat  up  in  bed. 
At  that  moment  Mrs.  Finnegan's  cuckoo  clock, 
sounding  distinctly  through  the  thin  flooring, 
warbled  twice  with  a  voice  of  friendly  betrayal. 
"Mercy!  it's  two  o'clock!"  she  muttered.  "I  won 
der  if  Mrs.  Finnegan  is  awake?  ...  I  do  hope 
she  heard  the  automobile!  ..." 

Seated  at  the  foot  of  her  mother's  bed,  Claire 
tried  her  best  to  give  a  satisfactory  report  of  the 
evening,  but  she  found  that  she  had  overlooked  most 
of  the  details  that  her  mother  found  interesting. 
Who  was  there?  What  did  Mrs.  Condor  wear? 
Did  they  have  an  elaborate  spread? — the  questions 
rippled  on  in  an  endless  flow. 

Under  the  acceleration  of  Claire's  recital,  Mrs. 
Robson  found  her  experiences  at  the  church  re- 

42 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ception  left  far  behind.  Even  with  scant  details, 
Claire  had  managed  to  evolve  a  fascinating  pict 
ure  of  a  life  robbed  sufficiently  of  puritanism  to 
be  properly  piquant.  There  was  a  tang  of  the 
swift,  immoral,  fascinating  'seventies  in  Claire's  still 
cautious  reference  to  champagne  and  cigarettes. 
It  was  impossible  for  any  San  Franciscan  who  had 
lived  through  those  splendid  madcap  bonanza  days 
to  deny  the  lure  of  gay  wickedness.  At  least  it 
was  hard  to  keep  one's  eyes  on  a  prayer-book  while 
the  car  of  pleasure  rattled  by.  And  a  coffee-and- 
cake  social  was,  after  all,  a  rather  tame  experience 
in  the  face  of  beverages  more  sparkling  and  eat 
ables  distinctly  enticing.  ...  Of  course,  if  Claire 
had  been  introduced  to  any  of  these  questionable 
delights  by  anybody  short  of  a  survivor  of  the 
Stillman  clan,  Mrs.  Robson  might  have  had  a  mis 
giving.  As  it  was,  she  was  not  above  a  certain 
forewarning  sense  that  made  her  say  with  an  air 
of  inconsequence  as  Claire  finished  her  recital: 

"Mrs.  Towne  tells  me  that  there  is  a  chance  that 
Mr.  Stillman Js  wife  may  get  well.  She's  in  a  pri 
vate  sanitarium,  at  Livermore,  you  know."  She 
stopped  to  draw  up  the  bedclothes  higher.  "I  do 
hope  it's  so!  ...  But  I'm  always  skeptical  about 
crazy  people  ever  amounting  to  anything  again. 
Seems  to  me  they're  better  off  dead." 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  Claire  Robson,  there  followed  after  the  mem 
orable  Condor-Stillman  musicale  a  period  of 
slack-water.  It  seemed  as  if  a  deadly  stagnation 
was  to  poison  her  existence,  so  sharp  and  empha 
sized  was  her  boredom.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs. 
Robson  seemed  to  have  contrived,  from  years  of 
living  among  arid  pleasures,  the  ability  to  conserve 
every  happiness  that  she  chanced  upon  to  its  last 
drop.  Claire's  invitation  to  be  one  of  a  distin 
guished  group  fed  her  vanity  long  after  her  daughter 
had  outworn  the  delights  of  retrospection.  The 
memory  of  this  incident  filled  Mrs.  Robson's 
thoughts,  her  dreams,  her  conversation.  Gradu 
ally,  as  the  days  dragged  by,  bit  by  bit,  she  gleaned 
detached  details  of  what  had  transpired,  weaving 
them  into  a  vivid  whole,  for  the  entertainment  of 
herself  and  the  amazement  of  her  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Finnegan. 

Formerly  Mrs.  Finnegan's  information  regarding 
what  went  on  in  exclusive  circles  was  confined  to 
society  dramas  on  the  screen  and  the  Sunday  sup 
plement.  The  personal  note  which  Mrs.  Robson 
brought  to  her  recitals  was  a  new  and  pleasing 
experience.  After  listening  to  the  authentic  gos 
sip  of  Mrs.  Robson,  Mrs.  Finnegan  would  return 

44 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

to  her  threshold  with  a  sense  of  having  shared  state 
secrets.  On  such  occasions  Mrs.  Robson's  frank 
ness  had  almost  a  challenge  in  it;  she  exaggerated 
many  details  and  concealed  none. 

"Yes,"  she  would  repeat,  emphatically,  "they 
served  cigarettes  along  with  the  wine.  They  always 
do." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Robson,"  Mrs.  Finnegan  inevitably 
returned,  "far  be  it  from  me  to  criticize  what  your 
daughter's  friends  do.  But  I  don't  approve  of 
women  smoking." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  neither  did  Mrs.  Robson,  but 
she  felt  in  duty  bound  to  resent  Mrs.  Finnegan 's 
narrow  attacks  upon  society. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Finnegan,  that's  only  because  you're 
not  accustomed  to  it.  Now,  if  you  had  ever  ..." 

"Did  Claire  smoke?" 

"Why,  of  course  not!  How  can  you  ask  such 
a  thing?  I  hope  I've  brought  my  daughter  up 
decently,  Mrs.  Finnegan." 

And  with  that,  Mrs.  Robson  would  deftly  switch 
to  a  less  exciting  detail  of  the  Condor-Stillman  mu- 
sicale,  before  her  neighbor  had  a  chance  to  pick 
flaws  in  her  logic.  But  sooner  or  later  the  topic 
would  again  verge  on  the  controversial.  Usually 
at  the  point  where  the  scene  shifted  from  Ned 
Stillman's  apartments  to  the  Palace  Hotel,  Mrs. 
Finnegan's  pug  nose  was  lifted  with  tentative  dis 
approval,  as  she  inquired: 

"How  many  did  you  say  went  down  to  the 
Palace?" 

"Only  four — Mr.  Stillman,  Claire,  Mrs.  Condor, 
and  a  young  fellow  named  Edington." 

45 


THE  BLOOD  REDRAWN 

"I  suppose  that  Mrs.  Condor  was  the  chaperon. 
Finnegan  knows  her  well!  She  used  to  hire  hacks 
when  Finnegan  was  in  the  livery  business  years 
ago.  She's  a  gay  one,  I  can  tell  you.  When  only 
the  steam-dummy  ran  out  to  the  Cliff  House.  ..." 

1  'That's  nothing.  Everybody  who  was  anybody 
had  dinners  at  the  Cliff  House  in  those  days.  I 
remember  how  my  father  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Robson,  maybe  you  do!  But  I'll 
bet  you  never  went  to  such  a  place  without  your 
husband  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  with  a  strange  man." 

Mrs.  Robson  never  had,  and  she  would  tell  Mrs. 
Finnegan  so  decidedly.  This  always  had  the  effect 
of  switching  the  subject  again  and  Mrs.  Robson 
found  her  desire  to  know  the  real  details  of  Mrs. 
Condor's  questionable  gaieties  offered  up  on  the 
altar  of  class  loyalty.  For  it  never  occurred  to 
Mrs.  Robson  to  doubt  that  her  social  exile  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  the  inherent  rights  of  her  position. 

When  everything  else  in  the  way  of  an  irritating 
program  failed  to  rouse  Mrs.  Robson's  dignified  ire, 
her  neighbor  fell  back  upon  the  fact  that  Stillman 
was  a  married  man.  Mrs.  Finnegan  really  wor 
shiped  Mrs.  Robson  to  distraction,  but  she  had  a 
natural  combative  tendency  that  was  at  odds  with 
even  her  loyalty. 

"Mr.  Stillman  is  a  married  man,"  Mrs.  Finnegan 
would  insist,  doggedly.  "And  I  don't  approve  of 
married  men  taking  an  interest  in  young  girls. 
Who  knows? — he  may  spoil  your  daughter's 
chances." 

This  statement  always  had  the  effect  of  dividing 
Mrs.  Robson  against  herself.  She  resented  Mrs. 

46 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Finnegan  s  insinuations  concerning  Stillman,  be 
cause  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  be  anything  but 
partizan,  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  mollified 
by  her  neighbor's  recognition  of  the  fact  that  Claire 
had  such  things  as  chances.  She  always  managed 
cleverly  at  this  point  by  saying,  patronizingly: 

"Why,  how  you  talk,  Mrs.  Finnegan!  Mr.  Still 
man  is  just  like  an  old  friend.  Not  that  we've 
known  him  so  long  .  .  .  but  the  family,  you  know 
.  .  .  they're  old-timers.  Everybody  knows  the 
Stillmans!  Really  one  couldn't  want  a  better 
friend." 

Thus  did  Mrs.  Robson  take  meager  and  colorless 
realities  and  expand  them  into  things  of  blossom 
ing  promise.  She  was  almost  creative  in  the  artis 
try  she  brought  to  these  transmutations.  In  the 
end  she  convinced  herself  of  their  existence  and  she 
was  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Finnegan  shared  equally 
in  the  delights  of  her  fancy. 

Meanwhile  November  passed,  and  the  first  weeks 
of  December  crowded  the  old  year  to  its  death. 
November  had  been  shrouded  in  clammy  fogs,  but 
no  rain  had  fallen,  and  everybody  began  to  have 
the  restless  feeling  engendered  by  the  usual  summer 
drought  in  California  prolonged  beyond  its  ap 
pointed  season.  The  country  and  the  people  needed 
rain.  Claire,  always  responsive  to  the  moods  of 
wind  and  weather,  longed  for  the  cleansing  flood 
to  descend  and  wash  the  dust-drab  town  colorful 
again.  She  awoke  one  morning  to  the  delicious 
thrill  of  the  moisture-laden  southeast  wind  blow 
ing  into  her  room  and  the  warning  voice  of  her 
mother  at  her  bedroom  door  calling  to  her: 

47 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

" You'd  better  put  on  your  thick  shoes,  Claire! 
We're  in  for  a  storm." 

She  leaped  out  of  bed  joyously  and  hurried  with 
her  dressing. 

As  she  walked  down  to  work  the  warm  yet  cu 
riously  refreshing  wind  flung  itself  in  a  fine  frenzy 
over  the  gray  city.  Dark-gray  clouds  were  clos 
ing  in  from  the  south,  and  in  the  east  an  ominous 
silver  band  of  light  marked  the  sullen  flight  of  the 
sun.  People  were  scampering  about  buoyantly, 
running  for  street-cars,  chasing  liberated  hats,  bat 
tling  with  billowing  skirts.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
promise  of  rain  had  revived  laughter  and  motion  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  At  the  office  this  ecstasy 
of  spirit  persisted;  even  Miss  Munch  came  in  hair 
awry  and  blowsy,  her  beady  eyes  almost  laughing. 

Mr.  Flint  had  not  been  to  the  office  for  two  days. 
A  sniffling  cold  had  kept  him  at  home.  Claire  had 
rather  looked  for  him  to-day,  and  had  prepared 
herself  for  a  flood  of  accumulated  dictation.  But 
the  threat  of  dampness  evidently  dissuaded  him, 
for  the  noon  hour  came  and  went  and  Mr.  Flint  did 
not  put  in  an  appearance.  At  about  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  a  long-distance  call  came  on  the  tel 
ephone  for  Miss  Robson.  Claire  answered.  Flint 
was  on  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  He  wanted  to 
know  if  she  could  come  at  once  over  to  Yolanda  and 
take  several  pages  of  dictation.  His  cold  was  un 
certain  and  he  might  not  get  out  for  the  rest  of  the 
week.  He  realized  that  it  was  something  of  an 
imposition  on  her  good  nature,  but  she  would  be 
doing  him  a  great  favor  if  ...  She  interrupted 
him  with  her  quick  assent  and  he  finished : 

48 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"I'll  have  the  car  at  the  station,  and  of  course 
you'll  stay  for  dinner." 

Claire  hung  up  the  receiver  and  looked  at  her 
watch.  It  was  just  half  after  three.  The  next 
ferryboat  connecting  at  Sausalito  with  the  electric 
train  for  Yolanda  left  at  three-forty-five.  She  had 
no  time  to  lose;  it  was  a  good  ten  mintues'  walk 
from  the  office  to  the  ferry  and  little  to  be  gained 
by  taking  a  street -car.  She  managed  her  prepara 
tions  for  departure  successfully,  but  in  the  end  she 
had  to  ask  Miss  Munch  to  telephone  her  mother. 
Miss  Munch  assented  with  an  alarmingly  sweet 
smile. 

Claire  walked  briskly  down  California  Street 
toward  the  ferry  -  building.  No  rain  had  fallen, 
but  the  air  was  full  of  ominous  promise.  The  wind 
was  even  brisker  than  it  had  been  in  the  morning, 
and  its  breath  almost  tropically  moist. 

"At  sundown  it  will  simply  pour,"  thought  Claire, 
as  she  exchanged  fifty  cents  for  a  ticket  to  Yolanda. 

She  presented  her  ticket  at  the  entrance  to  the 
waiting-room  and  passed  in.  The  passageway  to 
the  boat  was  already  open;  she  went  at  once  and 
found  a  sheltered  corner  outside  on  the  upper  deck. 
A  strong  sea  was  running  and  already  the  ferryboat 
was  plunging  and  straining  like  a  restless  blood 
hound  in  leash.  The  air  was  full  of  screaming  gulls 
and  the  clipped  whistling  of  restless  bay  craft. 
Claire  was  so  intent  on  all  this  elemental  agita 
tion  that  she  took  no  notice  of  the  people  about 
her,  but  as  the  boat  slid  lumberingly  out  of  the 
slip  she  was  recalled  by  a  voice  close  at  hand 
saying: 

49 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Why,  Miss  Robson,  who  would  think  of  seeing 
you  here  at  this  hour!" 

Claire  turned  and  discovered  Miss  Munch's  cousin 
sitting  beside  her,  intent  on  the  inevitable  tatting. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  how  stupid  of  me!  Have 
you  been  here  long?" 

"About  ten  minutes.  But  I  get  so  interested 
in  my  work  I  never  have  eyes  for  anything  else. 
How  do  you  put  in  the  time?  A  trip  like  this  is 
so  tiresome!" 

Claire  delved  into  her  bag  and  brought  out  knit 
ting-needles  and  an  unfinished  sock. 

"I'm  trying  a  hand  at  this,"  she  admitted,  hold 
ing  her  handiwork  up  ruefully.  "But  I'm  afraid 
I'm  not  very  skilful." 

Mrs.  Richards  inspected  the  sock  with  critical 
disapproval. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  encouraged,  "you'll  learn  .  .  . 
practice  makes  perfect.  I've  just  finished  a  half- 
dozen  pairs.  I  suppose  I'm  laying  myself  out  for 
a  roast  doing  tatting  in  public  these  war  days !  But 
it's  restful  and  I'm  not  one  to  pretend.  As  long  as 
my  conscience  is  clear  I  can  afford  to  be  perfectly 
independent  .  .  .  You  don't  make  this  trip  every 
night,  do  you?" 

"Oh  my,  no!  I'm  going  over  to  Mr.  Flint's  to 
take  some  dictation.  He's  home  sick." 

"I  saw  Mrs.  Flint  and  the  children  coming  off  the 
boat  just  as  I  got  on."  Mrs.  Richards's  voice  took 
on  a  tone  of  casual  directness. 

"You  know  Mrs.  Flint?" 

"My  dear  girl,  a  trained  nurse  knows  everybody 
— and  everything  about  them.  too.  You  never  get 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  real  line  on  people  until  you  live  with  them.  I've 
never  nursed  any  of  the  Flint  family,  but  I  wouldn't 
have  to  to  get  their  reputation — or  perhaps  I  should 
say,  old  Flint's." 

"Old  Flint's?"  echoed  Claire. 

"Well,  of  course  he  isn't  so  awfully  old,  but  men 
like  him  always  give  that  impression.  They're  so 
awfully  wise — about  some  things.  I  was  so  relieved 
when  Gertie  didn't  get  that  dreadful  Miss  White- 
head's  place.  Being  in  the  general  office  is  bad 
enough,  but  in  his  private  office  ..."  Mrs.  Rich 
ards  lifted  and  dropped  her  tatting-filled  hands 
significantly. 

Claire  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  face.  "I'm  in 
the  private  office,  Mrs.  Richards.  f  .  .  No  doubt 
you  forgot  it." 

"Well  now,  you  know  I  had  .  .  .  lor  the  mo 
ment.  But  with  a  girl  like  you  it's  different.  Some 
women  can  handle  men,  but  Gertie  would  be  so 
helpless!" 

The  humor  of  Mrs.  Richards's  remark  saved  the 
situation  for  Claire.  She  changed  the  subject  de 
liberately.  But  somehow,  with  the  conversation 
forced  from  the  particular  to  the  general,  Miss 
Munch 's  cousin  lost  interest,  and  by  the  time  the 
boat  had  passed  Alcatraz  Island  Claire  was  deep 
in  her  thoughts  again  and  the  other  woman  follow 
ing  the  measured  flight  of  the  tatting-shuttle  with 
strained  attention. 

The  boat  was  romping  through  the  stiff  sea  like 
a  playful  porpoise,  dipping  and  plunging.  A  half- 
score  of  adventuresome  gulls  were  still  following 
in  the  foam-churned  wake.  In  the  face  of  all  the 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

pitching  about,  Mrs.  Richards  had  quite  a  battle  to 
direct  her  shuttle  to  any  efficient  purpose,  and  Claire 
was  almost  amused  at  the  grim  determination  she 
brought  to  the  performance. 

Presently  a  warning  whistle  from  the  ferryboat 
betrayed  the  fact  that  they  were  nearing  Sausalito. 
Mrs.  Richards  began  to  gather  up  her  numerous 
bundles,  and  Claire  and  she  made  their  way  down 
the  narrow  stairs  to  the  lower  deck.  Their  progress 
was  slow  and  uncertain.  The  southeaster  was  tear 
ing  across  the  open  spaces  and  bending  everything 
before  it;  the  lumbering  boat  dipped  sideward  in 
a  stolid  encounter  with  its  adversary. 

' '  Mercy !  What  a  night !' '  gasped  Mrs.  Richards, 
clutching  at  Claire's  arm. 

A  gust  of  wind  struck  them  with  its  force  just  as 
they  reached  the  lower  deck.  Mrs.  Richards  stag 
gered  and  wrestled  vainly  with  tatting-bag  and 
bundles  and  a  refractory  skirt.  For  the  moment 
both  women  were  stalled  in  a  desperate  effort  to 
retain  their  equilibrium. 

"Come!"  gasped  Claire.  "Let's  get  over  there 
in  the  shelter  of  that  automobile." 

They  made  the  leeward  side  of  the  automobile 
in  question,  and  while  Mrs.  Richards  began  to  re 
cover  her  roughly  handled  dignity  Claire  turned 
her  attention  to  the  car.  It  was  a  huge  dark-red 
affair,  evidently  fresh  from  the  shop.  Claire  knew 
none  of  the  fine  points  of  automobiles,  but  this  one 
had  unmistakable  evidences  of  distinction.  She 
was  peering  in  at  its  opulent  depths  when  who  should 
surprise  her  but  Ned  Stillman. 

"My  dear  Miss  Robson!"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of 

52 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

delight,  as  he  faced  her  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
car.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Yours?"  she  queried. 

"Just  out  of  the  shop  to-day.  I  couldn't  wait 
until  it  cleared.  I  just  had  to  get  out  with  it.  And 
this  kind  of  weather  always  puts  me  up  on  my  toes. 
Where  are  you  going — to  Ross?  If  you  are,  don't 
bother  with  the  train.  Come  along  with  me." 

He  circled  about  the  machine  and  came  up  to 
her  with  a  frank,  outstretched  hand.  "Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon!"  he  murmured  as  Mrs.  Richards  came 
into  view. 

Claire  began  an  introduction,  but  Mrs.  Richards 
cut  in  with  her  odd,  challenging  way. 

"Oh,  I  know  Mr.  Stillman!  But  I  guess  he's 
forgotten  me.  It's  been  some  years,  of  course.  At 
Mr.  Faville's — your  wife's  father's  house." 

Stillman  paled  for  the  briefest  of  moments,  but 
he  recovered  himself  cleverly.  "Mrs.  Richards — of 
course !  How  do  you  do  ?  It  has  been  some  years. ' ' 

"I'm  going  to  Mr.  Flint's — at  Yolanda,"  said 
Claire,  "to  take  some  dictation.  He's  been  ill, 
you  know." 

"111?  No,  I  hadn't  heard  it.  Nothing  serious, 
I  hope." 

' '  Not  serious  enough  to  keep  Mrs.  Flint  at  home, 
anyway,"  volunteered  Mrs.  Richards,  in  her  charac 
teristically  disagreeable  way. 

"Mrs.  Richards  saw  Mrs.  Flint  and  the  children 
coming  off  the  boat  .  .  " 

"As  I  got  on,"  interrupted  the  lady  again. 

"Oh,  indeed,  is  that  so?"  Claire  fancied  that 
Stillman's  tone  held  something  more  than  polite 

53 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

acceptance  of  what  he  had  just  heard.  "I  can 
take  you  ladies  to  Yolanda  if  you'd  like  a  spin  in 
the  open  better  than  a  stuffy  ride  in  the  train." 

" Thank  you,"  Mrs.  Richards  returned,  "but  I 
get  off  at  Sausalito.  I've  no  doubt  Miss  Robson 
will  be  delighted." 

"I  think  I'd  better  not,"  said  Claire.  "Mr. 
Flint  is  sending  his  car  to  the  train  for  me.  I 
shouldn't  want  to  change  my  program  and  cause 
confusion.  But  I'd  like  nothing  better!  The  air 
is  so  bracing!" 

"You  can  excuse  me!"  put  in  Mrs.  Richards, 
moving  toward  the  forward  deck.  "It's  going  to 
pour  in  less  than  ten  minutes.  I'm  not  one  of  those 
amphibious  creatures  who  like  to  get  wringing  wet 
just  for  the  fun  of  it!" 

Stillman  lifted  his  hat.  Claire  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  undecided  whether  to  follow  Mrs.  Richards 
or  remain  for  a  chat  with  Stillman. 

"I'm  an  awful  fool,  I  suppose,"  Stillman  smiled 
at  Claire,  "bringing  the  car  out  on  a  night  like  this. 
But  the  truth  is  Edington  promised  to  catch  this 
boat  and  I  wanted  him  to  try  out  the  new  play 
thing.  I  might  have  known  he  wouldn't  make  it. 
We're  running  over  for  dinner  with  Edington's 
sister." 

At  this  moment  the  boat  crashed  clumsily  against 
the  Sausalito  ferry-slip,  and  in  the  sudden  confusion 
of  landing  Claire  was  swept  along  without  further 
ado. 

She  looked  back.  Stillman  waved  a  genial  good- 
by  to  her.  She  felt  glad  that  he  was  behind  her,  in 
a  vague,  impersonal,  thoroughly  inexplainable  way. 

54 


CHAPTER  VI 

was  disappointed  that  Mrs.  Flint  was 
not  to  be  at  home.  She  had  caught  glimpses 
of  her  now  and  then  coming  into  the  office  and  she 
was  interested  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her  at  closer 
range.  Mrs.  Flint  was  a  rather  frumpish  individual, 
who  always  gave  the  impression  of  pieced-out  dress 
making. 

"She  must  subscribe  to  the  Ladies'  Home  Jour 
nal"  Nellie  Whitehead  had  commented  one  day. 
"You  know  that  'go-up-into-the-garret-and-get- 
five-yards-of-grandmother's-wedding-gown'  column. 
Well,  she's  a  walking  ad.  for  it.  She's  no  raving 
beauty,  but  if  she  would  throw  out  her  chest  and 
chuck  those  flat-heeled  clogs  of  hers,  and  put  a  mar 
cel  wave  in  her  hair,  maybe  the  old  man  would  sit 
up  and  take  notice." 

To  which  Miss  Munch  had  replied: 

"Well,  she's  a  mighty  sweet  woman,  anyway!" 
in  a  tone  calculated  to  freeze  the  irrepressible  Nellie 
Whitehead  into  silence. 

"Who  says  she  isn't?  And  at  that,  a  good  tailor- 
made  suit  and  a  decent-looking  hat  won't  spoil  her 
disposition  any.  ..." 

The  children,  too,  were  what  Nellie  Whitehead 
had  termed  "perfect  guys."  On  warm  days  Mrs. 

55 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Flint  would  drag  these  two  daughters  of  hers  into 
the  office,  dressed  in  plaid  suits  and  velveteen  hats ; 
and  when  a  cold  north  wind  blew  it  seemed  inevi 
table  that  they  would  appear  in  gay  and  airy  cos 
tumes  up  to  their  knees,  with  impossible  straw 
bonnets  trimmed  with  daisies  and  faded  corn 
flowers,  reminiscent  of  the  white-leghorn-hat  era. 

"Men  don't  marry  women  for  their  clothes," 
Miss  Munch  used  to  say,  challengingly,  to  Nellie. 

"Oh,  don't  they,  indeed!  Well,  I've  lived  longer 
than  sixteen  and  a  half  years  and  I've  noticed  that 
it's  the  up-to-the-minute  dame  that  gets  away  with 
it  and  holds  onto  it  every  time,  just  the  same.  And 
any  woman  silly  enough  to  work  the  rag-bag  game 
when  her  husband  can  afford  seven  yards  of  taffeta 
and  a  Butterick  pattern  is  a  fool!" 

Claire  knew  women  who  looked  dowdy  on  dress- 
parade  and  yet  managed  to  be  quite  charming  in 
their  own  houses.  She  was  wondering  whether 
this  might  not  be  Mrs.  Flint's  case;  anyway,  she 
had  hoped  for  a  chance  to  decide  this  point,  and  now 
Mrs.  Flint  was  not  at  home. 

As  she  settled  into  her  matting-covered  seat  in 
the  train  she  began  to  wonder  just  who  would  be 
home  at  the  Flint  establishment.  And  she  thought 
suddenly  of  the  disagreeable  emphasis  that  Mrs. 
Richards  had  seen  fit  to  give  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Flint  was  bound  cityward.  At  this  stage  she  be 
came  lost  in  discovering  so  many  points  of  contact 
between  Mrs.  Richards  and  her  cousin,  Miss  Munch. 
Then  the  train  started  with  a  quick  lurch,  and  a 
view  of  the  rapidly  darkening  landscape  claimed 
her  utterly. 

56 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  always  took  a  childish  delight  in  watching 
the  panorama  of  the  countryside  unroll  swiftly 
before  the  space-conquering  flight  of  a  train.  And 
to-night  the  quick  close  of  the  December  day 
warned  her  to  make  the  most  of  her  opportunity. 
The  wind  was  whipping  the  upper  reaches  of  the  bay 
into  a  shallow  fury,  and  the  water  in  turn  was  beat 
ing  against  the  slimy  mud  and  swallowing  it  up  in 
gray,  futile  anger.  This  part  of  the  ride  just  out 
of  Sausalito  was  always  more  or  less  depressing  un 
less  a  combination  of  full  tide  and  vivid  sunshine 
gave  its  muddy  stretches  the  enlivening  grace  of 
sky-blue  reflections.  Worm-eaten  and  tottering 
piles,  abandoned  hulks,  half-swamped  skiffs,  all 
the  water-logged  dissolution  of  stagnant  shore  lines 
the  world  over,  flashed  by,  to  be  succeeded  by  the 
fresher  green  of  channel-cut  marshes.  The  hills 
were  wind-swept,  huddling  their  scant  oak  covering 
into  the  protecting  folds  of  shallow  canons.  At 
intervals,  clumps  of  eucalyptus-trees  banded  to 
gether  or  drew  out  in  long,  thin,  soldier-like  lines. 

Presently  it  began  to  rain.  There  was  no  pre 
liminary  patter,  but  the  storm  broke  suddenly, 
hurling  great  gray  drops  of  moisture  against  the 
windows.  Claire  withdrew  from  any  further  at 
tempt  to  watch  the  whirling  landscape.  It  was  now 
quite  dark,  the  short  December  day  dying  even 
more  suddenly  under  a  black  pall  of  lowering  clouds. 

She  began  to  have  distinctly  uncomfortable 
thoughts  about  her  visit  to  the  Flints'.  But  the 
more  uncomfortable  her  thoughts  became,  the  more 
reason  she  brought  to  bear  for  conquering  them. 
Surely  one  was  not  to  be  persuaded  into  a  panic 
5  57 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

by  any  such  person  as  Mrs.  Richards!  And  by  the 
time  the  brakeman  announced  the  train's  approach 
to  Yolanda,  Claire  had  recovered  her  common 
sense.  What  of  it  if  Mrs.  Flint  had  gone  to  town? 
There  must  be  other  women  in  the  household — at 
least  a  maid.  It  was  absurd!  The  train  stopped 
and  Claire  got  off. 

Flint's  car  was  waiting,  and  Jerry  Donovan,  the 
chauffeur,  stood  with  a  dripping  umbrella  almost 
at  Claire's  elbow  as  she  hopped  upon  the  platform. 

As  they  swished  through  the  inky  blackness, 
Claire  said  to  Jerry,  with  as  inconsequential  an  air 
as  she  could  muster: 

"I  thought  I  saw  Mrs.  Flint  get  off  the  boat  in 
town.  But  I  guess  I  was  mistaken.  She  wouldn't 
be  leaving  Mr.  Flint  alone  .  .  .  when  he's  ill." 

"111?"  Jerry  chuckled.  "Well,  he  ain't  dead  by 
a  long  shot.  Just  a  case  of  sniffles,  and  a  good  ex 
cuse  for  hitting  the  booze.  He's  in  prime  condition, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Claire  had  never  seen  Flint  in  "prime  condition," 
but  she  had  it  from  Nellie  Whitehead  that  there 
were  moments  when  the  gentleman  in  question 
could  "go  some,"  to  use  her  predecessor's  precise 
terms. 

"About  twice  a  year,"  Nellie  had  once  confided 
to  Claire,  "the  old  boy  starts  in  to  cure  a  cold.  I 
helped  him  cure  one  .  .  .  but  never  again!" 

Jerry's  observations  aroused  fresh  anxiety,  but 
they  did  not  settle  the  issue  for  Claire.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  turn  back  at  the  eleventh  hour. 
There  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do  but  go  through 
with  the  game.  Yet  she  still  hoped  for  the  best. 

58 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Did  Mrs.  Flint  go  to  town  to-day?'*  she  finally 
asked,  point-blank. 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Jerry,  swinging  the  car  past 
the  Flint  gateway. 

Claire  refused  to  be  totally  lacking  in  faith. 

"There  must  be  a  maid,"  flashed  through  her 
mind,  as  Jerry  stopped  the  car  and  swung  down  to 
help  her  out. 

A  Japanese  boy  threw  open  the  door  as  they 
scrambled  up  the  rain-soaked  steps.  But  the  fine, 
orderly,  Colonial  interior  reassured  Claire.  The 
few  country  homes  she  had  seen  had  been  of  the 
rambling,  unrelated  bungalow  type,  with  paneled 
redwood  walls  either  stained  to  a  dismal  brown  or 
quite  frankly  left  to  their  rather  characterless  pink. 
This  home  was  different.  Even  the  pungent  oak 
logs  crackling  in  the  fireplace  did  so  with  indefinable 
distinction.  The  general  tone  of  the  surroundings 
was  as  little  in  keeping  with  the  patchwork  per 
sonality  of  its  mistress  as  one  could  imagine.  It  was 
as  if  the  singular  completeness  of  Mrs.  Flint's  home 
left  no  time  nor  energy  for  a  finished  individuality. 
Claire  got  all  this  in  the  briefest  of  flashes,  just  a 
swift,  inclusive  glance  about  the  entrance  hall  and 
through  the  doorways  leading  into  the  rooms  be 
yond.  Particularly  did  she  sense  the  severe  opu 
lence  of  the  dining-room,  twinkling  at  a  remoter 
distance  than  the  living-room — its  perfectly  pol 
ished  silver,  its  spotless  linen,  its  wonderfully  blue 
china,  not  to  mention  the  disconcerting  fact  that 
the  table  in  the  center  was  laid  for  but  two. 

And  then  Flint  himself  came  forward  with  a  very 
red  face  and  an  absurdly  cordial  greeting. 

59 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Well,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  you'd  risk  it. 
This  will  be  a  storm  and  no  mistake.  .  .  .  Here, 
let  me  have  your  coat.  Come,  you're  quite  wet. 
.  .  .  Shall  you  warm  up  on  a  hot  toddy  or  some 
thing  cooler — a  cocktail?" 

She  felt  his  hand  sliding  down  her  arm  as  she 
released  the  coat  to  his  too-eager  fingers.  "Oh 
no,  Mr.  Flint!  Thank  you,  nothing.  It's  only  a 
bit  of  rain  on  the  surface.  I'm  quite  dry." 

"Quite  dry!"  He  echoed  her  words  with  a  guf 
faw.  "Well,  then,  we'll  have  to  moisten  you  up. 
I  always  say  everything's  a  good  excuse  for  a  drink. 
If  you're  cold  you  take  a  drink  to  warm  up ;  if  you're 
warm  you  take  one  to  cool  off.  You  dry  out  on 
one,  and  you  wet  up  on  one.  I  don't  know  of  any 
habit  with  so  many  good  reasons  back  of  it.  I'm 
dry,  too.  ...  We'll  have  a  Bronx !  That's  a  nice, 
ladylike  drink." 

Claire  weighed  her  reply.  She  did  not  want  to 
strike  the  wrong  note;  she  wanted  to  let  him  have 
a  feeling  that  she  was  accepting  everything  in  a 
normal,  matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  she  saw  nothing 
extraordinary  in  the  situation. 

"You're  very  kind,  but  really  you  know  ...  if 
I'm  to  get  my  dictation  straight  ..." 

"Well,  perhaps  there  won't  be  any  dictation. 
We're  not  slaves,  you  and  I.  Maybe  it  will  be 
much  pleasanter  to  sit  before  the  fire  and  listen  to 
the  storm.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

She  turned  from  him  deliberately,  under  the 
fiction  of  fluffing  up  her  hair  before  a  gilt  mirror 
near  the  door.  She  was  thinking  quickly  and  with 
a  tremendous,  if  concealed,  agitation.  "Why,"  she 

60 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

laughed  back,  finally,  "that  would  be  pleasant. 
But  I  came  to  take  dictation,  Mr.  Flint.  And 
women  .  .  .  women,  you  know,  are  so  funny!  If 
they  make  up  their  minds  to  one  thing,  they  can't 
switch  suddenly  to  another  idea." 

He  was  paying  no  attention  to  her  remark,  a 
remark  which  she  felt  would  have  fallen  flat  in  any 
event,  since  it  was  so  palpably  studied. 

"The  living-room  is  in  there,"  he  said,  pointing. 
"Make  yourself  at  home." 

She  went  in  and  sat  before  the  fire.  Flint  dis 
appeared.  She  tried  hard  to  analyze  the  situation. 
It  was  unthinkable  that  Mr.  Flint  had  deliberately 
planned  this  piece  of  foolishness.  He  must  have 
had  some  idea  of  work  when  he  had  telephoned 
her;  perhaps  he  still  had.  It  was  his  way  of  being 
facetious,  she  argued,  this  fine  pretense  that  it  was 
all  to  be  a  pleasant  lark,  or  it  may  have  been  his 
idea  of  hospitality.  Of  course  he  had  been  drinking, 
but  she  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that  there 
must  be  instinctive  standards  in  a  man  like  Flint 
that  even  whisky  could  not  swamp.  At  least  he 
must  respect  his  wife — surely  it  was  not  possible 
for  Flint,  drunk  or  sober,  to  offer  such  an  affront 
to  her,  however  little  he  respected  the  women  in 
his  employ.  She  dismissed  Mrs.  Richards's  ex 
aggerated  insinuations  with  their  well-deserved 
contempt,  but  she  could  not  thrust  aside  quite  so 
readily  the  eye-lifting  tone  with  which  Stillman 
had  met  the  announcement  of  Mrs.  Flint's  absence 
from  home. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Claire  had  seen  Still 
man  since  the  musicale.  She  had  thought  a  great 

61 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

deal  about  him  and  particularly  about  his  problem. 
She  felt  a  great  desire  to  know  everything — all  the 
details  of  the  unfortunate  circumstance  that  had 
driven  his  wife  into  a  madhouse,  and  yet  whenever 
her  mother  broached  the  subject  Claire  changed 
the  topic  with  curious  panic.  She  seemed  to  dread 
the  hard,  almost  triumphant  manner  that  her 
mother  assumed  in  tracking  misfortune  to  its  lair 
and  gloating  over  it.  She  began  to  wonder  whether 
Stillman  would  be  swinging  back  to  the  city  on  a 
late  boat  ...  or  would  the  storm  keep  him  at 
Edington's  sister's  home  all  night? 

She  was  in  the  midst  of  this  speculation  when 
Flint  came  into  the  room. 

" We'll  eat  early  and  have  that  off  our  minds," 
he  announced.  His  manner  was  brusk  and  busi 
ness-like  again.  Claire  felt  reassured. 

But  she  was  disturbed  to  find  a  cocktail  at  her 
place  at  the  table. 

"Well,  here's  glad  to  see  you!"  Flint  raised 
his  glass  and  tilted  it  ever  so  slightly  in  her  direction. 
Claire  lifted  the  cocktail  to  her  lips  and  set  it  down 
untasted.  "What's  the  matter?  Getting  unsocia 
ble  again?" 

"No,  Mr.  Flint.     I  don't  care  for  cocktails." 

"Oh,  all  right!  We'll  send  down-cellar  and  get 
some  wine." 

"Thank  you,  not  for  me." 

' '  I  suppose  you  don't  care  for  wine,  either  ?"  His 
voice  had  a  bantering  quality,  with  a  shade  of 
menace  in  it.  "Or  maybe  the  right  party  isn't 
here.  I've  noticed  that  makes  a  difference.  Fe 
males  are  damned  moral  with  the  wrong  fellow." 

62 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

His  attack  was  so  direct  and  insolent  that  Claire 
missed  the  trepidation  that  might  have  come  with 
a  more  covert  move.  She  was  no  longer  uncertain. 
There  was  a  sharp  relief  in  realizing  that  all  the 
cards  were  on  the  table.  She  felt  also  that  there 
was  no  immediate  danger.  Flint  was  far  from 
sober,  but  he  was  in  his  own  home.  She  had  the 
conviction  that  he  was  merely  skirmishing,  test 
ing  the  strength  or  weakness  of  the  line  he  hoped 
to  penetrate.  Her  reply  was  rather  more  of  a 
challenge  than  she  could  have  imagined  herself 
giving  under  such  a  circumstance. 

"And  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  don't  care  for 
wine,  Mr.  Flint?" 

He  threw  open  his  napkin  with  a  flourish. 
"You'd  be  telling  me  a  damned  lie!  You  drink 
wine  at  the  Palace  with  Stillman  and  Edington." 

She  had  felt  that  he  was  going  to  say  some  such 
thing  and  for  a  moment  it  amused  her.  It  was  so 
ridiculous  to  find  this  rather  wan  and  wistful  in 
discretion  assumingd  amaging  proportions.  But  a 
nasty  fear  succeeded  her  faint  amusement.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Stillman  had  gossiped? 

"Who  told  you?"  she  demanded. 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid;  it  wasn't  Stillman!  You're 
like  all  women,  you  moon  about  sentimentalizing  over 
Ned  until  it  makes  a  man  like  me  sick !  I  like  Ned ; 
I  always  have.  But  even  when  we  went  to  college 
together  it  was  the  same  way.  Everybody  .  .  . 
yes,  even  the  men  .  .  .  always  gave  him  credit  for 
a  high  moral  tone.  Not  that  he  ever  took  it  ... 
I'll  say  that  for  him.  .  .  .  Ned  Stillman  didn't  tell 
me,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  didn't  have  to, 

63 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Nobody  told  me.  I  go  to  the  Palace  myself  under 
pressure,  and  I've  got  two  eyes.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  isn't  any  reason  why  Edington  or  Still- 
man  or  the  waiter  who  drew  the  corks  shouldn't 
have  mentioned  it.  A  glass  of  wine  is  no  crime. 
But  the  thing  that  makes  me  hot  is  to  see  any 
one  pretending.  If  you  drink  with  Stillman,  you 
haven't  any  license  to  refuse  a  glass  with  me." 

There  was  something  more  than  wine-heated 
rancor  back  of  his  harangue.  Claire  guessed  in 
stinctively  that  he  both  loved  and  hated  Stillman 
with  a  curious  confusion  of  impulses.  It  was  a  feel 
ing  of  affection  torn  by  the  irritating  superiority  of 
its  object.  One  gets  the  same  thing  in  families 
.  .  .  among  children.  It  was  at  once  subtle  and 
extremely  primitive. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Flint,  this  isn't  quite  the  same 
thing.  I've  work  to  do  for  one  thing  and,  and.  .  ." 

"And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  say  it? 
You're  alone  with  me  and  all  that  sort  of  rubbish ! 
Want  a  chaperon,  I  suppose.  Mrs.  Condor,  for 
instance.  .  .  .  Good  Lord!" 

Claire  dipped  her  spoon  into  the  steaming 
bouillon-cup  in  front  of  her.  She  was  growing 
quite  calm  under  the  directness  of  Flint's  attack. 

"It  isn't  the  same,"  she  reiterated,  stubbornly. 
"I've  work  to  do,  Mr.  Flint." 

"I  tell  you  that  you  haven't!"  Flint  brought 
his  fist  down  upon  the  table. 

"Well,  then,  why  did  you  send  for  me?" 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  you.  .  .  .  Gad!  one 
can't  talk  in  that  ramping  office  of  mine.  We've 
never  even  settled  the  matter  of  an  increase  in 

64 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

salary  for  you.  By  the  way,  how  much  money  do 
you  get?" 

Claire  had  never  seen  any  man  look  so  crafty 
and  disagreeable.  He  gave  her  the  impression  of 
a  petty  tyrant  about  to  bestow  largess  upon  an 
obsequious  and  fawning  slave. 

"Sixty-five  dollars  a  month.'* 

"Well,  I  don't  exactly  know.  .  .  .  I've  been  try 
ing  to  figure  out  just  how  valuable  you  are  to  me, 
Miss  Robson.  Or,  rather,  how  valuable  you're 
likely  to  be."  He  thrust  aside  his  soup  and  leaned 
heavily  upon  the  table.  "That's  why  I  invited 
you  over  to-night.  I  wanted  to  see  you  at  a  little 
closer  range.  You  live  with  your  mother,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Mr.  Flint." 

"You  .  .  .  you  support  your  mother,  I  believe?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Flint." 

"Well,  sixty-five  dollars  don't  leave  much  mar 
gin  for  hair  ribbons  and  the  like,  does  it,  now?" 

"No,  Mr.  Flint." 

"No,  Mr.  Flint.  .  .  .  Yes,  Mr.  Flint  .  .  ."  he 
mocked.  "Good  Lord!  can't  you  cut  that  school- 
girl-to-her-dignified-guardian  attitude.  I'm  hu 
man.  Dammit  all,  I'm  as  human  as  your  friend 
Ned  Stillman.  I'll  bet  you  don't  yes-sir  and  no-sir 
him.  .  .  .  You  know,  that  night  I  saw  you  at  the 
Palace  you  quite  bowled  me  over.  I'd  been  think 
ing  of  you  as  a  shy,  unsophisticated  young  thing. 
But  you  were  hitting  the  high  places  like  a  veteran. 
Even  old  lady  Condor  didn't  have  anything  on  you. 
Except,  of  course,  that  she  looks  the  part.  By  the 
way,  where  did  you  meet  Stillman?" 

"At  .  .  .  at  a  church  social,"  Claire  stammered. 

6s 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"At  a  church  social!  Say,  I  wasn't  born  yester 
day.  Ned  Stillman  doesn't  go  to  church.  Tell 
me  something  easy." 

"It  was  really  a  Red  Cross  concert.  He  went 
with  Mrs.  Condor,"  Claire  found  herself  explaining 
in  spite  of  her  anger.  "We  sat  at  the  same  table 
when  the  ice-cream  was  served." 

Flint  was  roaring  with  exaggerated  laughter. 
Even  Claire  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  What  made 
the  statement  so  ridiculous,  she  found  herself  won 
dering.  Was  she  unconsciously  reflecting  Flint's 
attitude  or  had  she  herself  changed  so  tremendously 
in  the  last  few  weeks  ? 

"Stillman  at  a  church  social!  But  that  is  good! 
And  eating  ice-cream.  .  .  .  How  long  ago  did  all 
this  happen,  pray?" 

"Sometime  in  November." 

He  stopped  his  senseless  guffawing  and  looked 
at  her  keenly.  "Where  did  you  get  the  church- 
social  habit?" 

"I  ...  why,  I  guess  I  formed  it  early,  Mr. 
Flint.  As  you  say,  sixty-five  dollars  a  month 
doesn't  leave  much  for  hair  ribbons  or  anything 
else.  Going  to  church  socials  is  about  the  cheapest 
form  of  recreation  I  can  think  of." 

The  bitterness  of  her  tone  seemed  to  pull  Flint 
up  with  a  round  turn.  "Well,  we're  going  to  get 
you  out  of  this  silly  church-social  habit.  Dammit 
all,  Stillman  isn't  the  only  possibility  in  sight. 
That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  get  at — your  view 
point.  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  Miss  Robson — 
a  tremendous  interest.  Good  Lord!  I  can  dance 
one-steps  and  fox-trots  and  hesitations  as  well  as 

66 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

anybody!  I  danced  every  bit  as  well  as  Ned  Still- 
man  when  we  went  to  dancing-school  together.  But 
he  always  got  most  of  the  applause.  He  has  an  air, 
I  don't  deny  that,  but  he's  working  it  overtime.  .  .  . 
And  he's  not  in  any  better  position  for  being 
friendly  to  you  than  I  am — he's  married." 

The  talk  was  sobering  him  a  little.  Claire  was 
amazed  to  find  that  she  did  not  feel  indignant. 
His  tone  was  offensive,  but  at  least  it  was  forth 
right.  Besides,  she  had  known  instinctively  that 
some  day  he  would  force  the  issue,  and  she  was 
rather  glad  to  get  it  settled.  And  she  began  to 
hope  that  she  could  persuade  him  skilfully  against 
his  warped  convictions.  She  was  trembling  in 
wardly,  too,  at  the  thought  that  she  might  make  a 
false  step  and  find  herself  out  of  a  position.  Posi 
tions  were  not  easy  to  land  these  days.  She  knew 
a  half-score  of  girls  who  had  tramped  the  town  over 
in  a  desperate  effort  to  find  a  vacancy.  Two  or 
three  months  without  salary  meant  debts  piling 
up,  clothes  in  ribbons,  and  no  end  of  hectic  worries. 

"I  think  you've  got  a  decidedly  wrong  impression 
of  my  friendship  for  Mr.  Stillman,"  she  said,  after 
some  deliberation.  "I  really  know  him  only 
slightly.  He  was  good  enough,  or  rather  I  should 
say  Mrs.  Condor  was  good  enough,  to  include  me 
in  a  little  musical  evening.  That  was  on  the  night 
you  saw  me  at  the  Palace.  We  dropped  down  for 
a  dance  or  two  after  the  music  was  over.  I'd  never 
been  to  such  a  place  before,  and  I  dare  say  I'll  never 
go  again.  It  was  just  one  of  those  experiences  that 
come  to  a  person  out  of  a  clear  sky.  It's  over  as 
quickly  as  a  shower." 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry!  There'll  be  other  show 
ers.  I'm  going  to  see  to  that.  You  know,  the  more 
I  talk  to  you  the  more  amazing  you  are.  .  .  .  Fancy 
your  graduating  from  dinky  church  things  into 
Stillman  musicales,  and  Palace  dansants,  and 
young  Edington,  and  old  lady  Condor,  all  of  a  sud 
den  .  .  .  and  getting  away  with  it  as  if  you  were 
an  old  hand  at  the  game.  Say,  if  you're  that  apt 
I'll  give  you  a  post-graduate  course  in  high  life 
that  '11  make  your  hair  curl  forty-seven  ways.  I 
don't  mean  anything  vulgar  or  common  .  .  .  you 
understand.  I'm  a  gentleman,  Miss  Robson,  at 
that." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  to  ring  the  bell  for  the 
Japanese  boy.  Claire  maintained  a  discreet  si 
lence.  She  had  a  feeling  that  it  would  be  just  as 
well  to  let  him  take  his  full  rein.  The  servant  came 
in  and  cleared  away  the  empty  bouillon  -  cups. 
Fish  was  served. 

Flint  took  one  taste  of  the  fish  and  shoved  it 
away  impatiently.  "You  know,  a  fellow  like  me 
gets  awfully  bored  at  all  this  sort  of  thing."  He 
swept  the  room  with  an  inclusive  gesture.  "Not 
that  my  wife  isn't  the  best  little  woman  in  the 
world,  but  you  know.  She's  got  standards  and  con 
victions  and  all  that  sort  of  rot.  I  can't  bundle 
her  off  for  dinner  and  a  little  lark  at  the  Red  Paint 
or  Bonini's  or  some  other  Bohemian  joint  like 
them.  .  .  .  You  know  what  I  mean,  no  rough  stuff 
.  .  .  but  a  good  feed,  and  two  kinds  of  wine,  and 
a  cigarette  with  the  small  black.  Just  gay  and 
frivolous.  ...  Of  course  I  can  get  any  number 
of  girls  to  run  around  and  help  eat  up  all  the 

68 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

nourishment  I  care  to  provide.  But,  good  Lord! 
that  isn't  it !  I'm  looking  for  somebody  with  human 
intelligence.  Not  that  I  want  to  discuss  free  verse 
and  the  Little  Theater  movement.  But  I  like  to 
feel  that  if  I  took  such  a  crazy  notion  the  person 
sitting  opposite  me  could  qualify  for  a  good  come 
back.  ...  I  like  my  home  and  everything,  but  .  .  . 
Oh,  well,  what's  the  use  in  pretending?  I'm  just 
as  human  as  your  friend  Ned  Stillman  and  I've 
got  just  as  keen  an  eye  for  class." 

He  sat  back  in  his  seat  with  an  air  of  satisfaction, 
waiting  for  Claire's  reply.  She  had  been  calm 
enough  while  he  talked,  but  under  the  tenseness 
of  his  silent  expectancy  she  felt  her  heart  bound. 

"Dammit  all!  Why  don't  you  say  something?" 
he  blurted  out.  "I  know,  you  need  a  little  wine. 
I'm  going  down-stairs  and  pick  out  the  best  in  the 
cellar  .  .  .  myself" 

She  did  not  attempt  to  dissuade  him;  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  felt  relieved  to  be  left  alone  for  a  moment. 
She  must  leave  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over.  She 
began  to  wonder  about  the  trains.  The  storm  was 
raging  outside.  She  could  hear  the  frenzied  trees 
flinging  their  branches  about  and  a  noisy  flood  of 
rain  against  the  windows.  She  spoke  to  the  Jap 
anese  boy  as  he  was  carrying  away  Flint's  unfinished 
fish  course. 

"Do  you  know  what  time  the  next  train  leaves?" 

He  laid  the  tray  on  the  serving-table.  "Please 
.  .  .  I  telephone.  Please!"  He  bobbed  at  her  ab 
surdly  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  She  listened. 
He  was  ringing  up  the  station-master.  He  came 
back  promptly. 

69 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

" Please,"  he  began,  sucking  in  his  breath,  "please 
...  no  train  to-night." 

"No  train  to-night?    Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Please  .  .  .  very  much  water.  Train  track 
washed  out.  No  train  to-night.  To-morrow  morn 
ing,  maybe." 

"Oh,  but  I  must  go  home  to-night!  I  really 
must!  I  ..." 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  realizing  the  futility  of 
her  protest. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  replied  the  Japanese, 
blandly.  "All  right  to-morrow  morning.  You 
stay  here.  ...  I  fix  a  place.  You  see  ...  I  fix 
a  very  nice  place  for  young,  lady." 

He  went  out  with  the  tray  and  Claire  rose  and 
walked  to  the  window.  Flint  broke  into  the  room 
noisily.  She  turned — he  had  two  dusty  bottles  in 
his  hand,  and  an  air  of  triumph. 

"Mr.  Flint,  it  seems  that  there  has  been  a  wash 
out.  I  understand  that  no  trains  are  running. 
What  can  I  do?  I  must  get  back;  really  I  ..." 

"Who  says  so?"  Flint  laid  the  bottles  down 
with  an  irritating  calmness. 

"The  station-master.  Your  .  .  .  your  servant 
just  telephoned  for  me." 

"Oh,  well,  we  should  worry!    Sit  down." 

"Mr.  Flint,  really,  I  must  .  .  .  You  know  I 
can't  .  .  .  I  .  .  ." 

"Sit  down!" 

His  tone  was  a  dash  of  cold  water  thrown  in  the 
face  of  her  rising  hysteria.  She  sat  down.  Flint 
ignored  the  bottles  on  the  table  and,  crossing  over 
to  the  Sheraton  sideboard,  poured  himself  a  stiff 

70 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

drink  of  whisky.  His  hair-towsled  condition  stood 
out  sharply  against  the  precise  background. 

He  made  no  further  comment,  but  he  began  to 
open  the  bottles  of  wine  deliberately.  Then  he 
rummaged  in  the  china-closet  for  the  wine-glasses 
and  set  four,  two  at  his  place  and  two  at  Claire's, 
upon  the  table. 

"White  wine  with  the  entree  and  red  wine  with 
the  roast,"  he  muttered.  And  he  poured  out  the 
white  wine  without  further  ado. 

The  servant  came  in  with  creamed  sweetbreads. 
Claire  forced  herself  to  make  a  pretense  of  eating, 
although  her  appetite  had  long  since  deserted  her. 
She  was  thinking,  and  thinking  hard. 

She  should  never  have  come,  in  the  first  place — 
at  least  she  should  have  turned  back  upon  the 
strength  of  Jerry's  announcement.  But  she  saw 
now,  with  a  clearness  that  surprised  her,  that  the 
situation  had  really  challenged  her  imagination. 
She  had  been  too  calm,  too  collected,  too  well- 
poised,  full  of  smug  over-confidence.  She  had 
read  in  the  current  novels  of  the  day  how  hysteri 
cally  unsophisticated  heroines  conducted  them 
selves  in  tight  corners  and  she  had  followed  their 
writhings  with  ill-concealed  impatience.  She  never 
had  really  put  herself  in  their  place,  but  she  had  had 
a  vague  notion  that  they  carried  on  absurdly.  Her 
fear  all  evening  had  been  not  what  Mr.  Flint  would 
do  or  say  or  even  suggest — she  had  been  anxious 
merely  to  have  the  impending  storm  over,  the  air 
cleared,  and  her  position  in  the  office  assured  upon 
a  purely  business-like  basis.  She  had  really  wel 
comed  the  forced  issue ;  for  weeks  her  mind  had  been 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

entertaining  and  dismissing  the  idea  that  Mr.  Flint 
had  any  questionable  motives  in  yielding  Nellie 
Whitehead's  place  to  her.  With  this  fleeting  trepi 
dation  had  come  the  realization  of  her  dependence, 
the  importance  her  sixty-five  dollars  a  month  in  the 
scheme  of  things,  the  compromises  that  she  might 
be  forced  into  accepting  in  order  to  insure  its  con 
tinuance;  not  definite  and  soul-searing  compromises, 
it  was  true,  but  petty,  irritating  trucklings  which 
wear  down  self-esteem. 

It  had  been  the  primitive  violence  of  Flint's 
commanding,  "Sit  down!"  to  thrust  the  issue  from 
the  economic  to  the  elemental.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  Claire  was  face  to  face  with  unstripped 
masculine  brutality.  She  had  wondered  why 
women  of  a  lower  order  took  men's  blows  without 
striking  back,  without  at  least  escaping  from  fur 
ther  torment.  But  she  was  beginning  to  see,  as 
her  spirits  tried  to  rise  reeling  from  Flint's  verbal 
assault,  the  fawning  submission,  half  admiration, 
half  fear,  that  could  follow  a  frank,  hard-fisted  blow. 
And  she  had  a  terror,  sitting  there  trying  to  thrust 
food  between  her  trembling  lips,  that  the  sheer 
physical  force  of  the  male  opposite  her  might  shatter 
in  one  blow  a  will  that  could  have  withstood  any 
amount  of  spiritual  or  material  attrition.  She  had 
never  seen  Flint  so  clearly  as  at  this  moment;  in 
fact,  she  had  never  seen  him  at  all.  Formerly,  he 
had  been  a  conventionalized  masculine  biped  in  a 
blue-serge  covering  who  paid  her  salary  and  struck 
attitudes  that  were  symbols  of  predatory  instincts 
rather  than  an  indication  that  such  instincts  existed. 
Life  had,  after  all,  been  peopled  by  the  precisely 

72 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

labeled  puppets  of  a  morality  play;  they  came  on, 
and  declaimed,  and  made  gestures — but  they  re 
mained  abstractions,  things  apart  from  life,  mere 
representations  of  the  vices  and  virtues  they  im 
personated.  She  had  entertained  this  idea  particu 
larly  with  regard  to  Flint.  She  had  felt  that  the 
day  would  come  when  he  and  she  would  occupy  the 
stage  together.  He  would  speak  his  part  with  a 
great  flourish  of  the  hands  and  much  high-sounding 
emphasis,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  would  reply 
with  a  carefully  worded  retort,  setting  forth  the 
claims  and  rewards  of  virtue.  Thus  it  would  con 
tinue,  argument  succeeding  argument,  a  declama 
tory  give  and  take,  dignified,  passionless,  theatrical. 

They  were  occupying  the  stage  now,  it  was  true, 
but  there  was  something  warm  and  human  and  rag 
ged  about  the  performance.  Flint  was  not  a  mere 
spiritless  allegory  in  red-satin  doublet  and  hose  to 
give  flame  to  his  conventionality.  Instead,  she 
saw  sitting  opposite  her  a  ponderous,  quick-breath 
ing,  drunken  male,  handsome  in  a  coarse,  rough- 
hewn  way,  speaking  in  the  quick,  clipped  speech  of 
passion  and  striking  her  to  the  ground  with  the 
energy  of  his  stage  business.  She  was  afraid,  al 
most  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  with  a  primitive, 
abandoned  fear.  And  suddenly  her  vista  of  woman 
hood  narrowed  to  include  the  ugly  foreground  of 
life  that  youth  had  looked  over  in  its  eager,  far- 
flung  scanning  of  the  horizon  beyond.  Suddenly 
she  felt  all  the  oppression  and  sorrow  of  the  sex 
bear  down  upon  her  and  mark  her  with  its  relentless 
finger.  Because  she  was  a  woman  she  would  pay 
for  every  joy  with  a  corresponding  sorrow;  receive 

6  73 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  blow  for  every  caress;  know  courage  and  fear 
with  equal  intimacy.  .  .  .  She  stopped  eating  and 
she  began  to  realize  with  a  vivid  terror  that  Flint 
was  looking  at  her  fixedly  and  beginning  to  speak. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  sweetbreads? 
Don't  you  like  'em?  .  .  .  And  the  wine?  .  .  .  Say, 
I'm  going  to  get  peeved  in  a  minute.  You  don't 
suppose  we  serve  this  French-restaurant  style  of 
meal  every  day  do  you?  I  should  say  not!  That's 
another  one  of  the  frau's  convictions.  Plain  living 
at  home  so  as  to  set  the  right  example  to  the  girls!" 
Flint  threw  his  head  from  side  to  side,  mincing  out 
his  last  statement.  "Gad!  I'm  tired  of  setting  a 
good  example!  .  .  .  And  even  Sing  gets  tired. 
Chinks,  you  know,  like  to  cook  a  bang-up  meal 
once  in  a  while.  They  like  a  chance  to  show  their 
speed  and  put  in  all  the  fancy  trimmings." 

His  mood,  during  this  speech,  had  changed  with 
drunken  facility  from  irritability  to  good  humor. 
Claire,  still  attempting  to  marshal  her  wits,  picked 
up  her  fork  again  and  murmured: 

"Oh,  you  have  a  Chinese  cook,  then?  I  had  no 
idea  .  .  .  The  Japanese  boy,  you  know.  They  say 
that  the  two  never  get  along." 

"That's  a  fairy-tale.  Besides,  it's  next  to  im 
possible,  these  days,  to  get  a  Chinese  second-boy. 
And  the  missus  won't  hire  a  girl."  He  winked 
broadly.  "Can't  get  one  ugly  enough,  I  guess. 
Sing's  a  wonder.  I  copped  him  from  the  Tom 
Forsythes.  You  know — young  Edington's  in-laws. 
They've  never  quite  forgiven  me.  Though  they 
will  come  back  and  tuck  away  one  of  his  dinners 
occasionally." 

74 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire's  mind  closed  nimbly  over  Flint's  state 
ment.  "The— the  Tom  Forsythes  of  Ross?"  she 
asked. 

He  nodded  and  tossed  a  glass  of  wine  off  in  one 
gulp.  The  Tom  Forsythes  of  Ross  .  .  .  E ding- 
ton's  sister  .  .  .  Ned  Stillman!  The  sequence  of 
ideas  flashed  through  Claire's  mind  with  flashing 
detachment.  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  raised 
the  wine-glass  in  obvious  pretense  to  her  lips. 
Flint  was  watching  her  keenly:  an  ugly  gleam  was 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  Miss  Robson,  you  might  just  as  well  make 
up  your  mind  to  finish  that  glass  of  wine  first  as 
last.  We're  not  going  to  have  the  next  course 
until  you  do." 

She  measured  him  deliberately.  She  knew  now 
that  it  was  to  be  a  fight  to  a  finish.  She  was  hon 
estly  afraid  and  full  of  the  courage  of  realization. 

"I've  had  enough  as  it  is,  Mr.  Flint.  Besides, 
we  must  either  be  getting  to  work  or  figuring  how 
I  am  to  make  the  boat  at  Sausalito.  I  suppose 
you  could  send  me  in  the  car  .  .  .  with  Jerry." 

"Oh,  with  Jerry?  So  that's  it!  ...  No,  not 
on  your  life!  He's  too  good-looking  a  boy  for  a  job 
like  that.  No,  Miss  Robson,  you  are  going  to  stay 
right  here.  .  .  .  Now,  understand  me,  I'm  not  a 
damn  fool!  You  seem  to  have  an  idea  that  because 
I've  had  a  glass  or  two  that  I've  lost  my  reason. 
You're  an  attractive  girl  and  all  that,  Miss  Robson, 
and  I  am  interested  in  you!  But  please  don't 
flatter  yourself  that  I'm  staking  everything  on  a 
throw  like  this.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'll  see  that 
you  are  properly  chaperoned.  We've  plenty  of 

75 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

neighbors.  You've  got  the  best  excuse  in  the  world 
for  staying  here  and  ..." 

''But,  my  dear  Mr.  Flint,  can't  you  see,  I  ..." 

"No,  I  can't.  I  want  you  to  stay  here.  My 
reasons  are  as  good  as  yours.  Now  let's  get  that 
off  our  mind  and  enjoy  the  meal." 

His  manner  struck  her  protests  to  the  ground 
again.  She  was  no  longer  fearing  the  immediate 
outcome,  in  fact,  she  never  had,  but  she  knew  that 
if  he  broke  her  to  his  will  now,  all  the  safeguards, 
all  the  chaperons,  all  the  conventions  in  the  world 
wouldn't  save  her  from  ultimate  consequences. 
This  was  the  try-out  that  was  to  establish  her  pace 
in  the  final  contest;  she  would  stand  or  fall  upon 
the  record  she  made  at  this  moment.  For  she  was 
trying  out  something  more  than  Flint's  temper, 
something  greater  than  a  mechanical  adjustment 
of  human  relationships — she  was  trying  out  herself. 
She  sat  for  some  moments,  thinking  hard,  one  hand 
fingering  the  slender  base  of  the  wine-filled  glass  in 
front  of  her,  the  other  dropped  in  pensive  limpness 
at  her  side.  Flint  had  cleared  the  space  in  front 
of  him  of  everything  but  his  two  wine-glasses.  He 
had  slipped  down  in  his  seat  and  his  two  bloodshot 
eyes  were  fixing  her  with  a  level  stare. 

She  stirred  finally  and  rose. 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant. 

"I'm  going  to  telephone,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"Telephone  .  .  .  where?  .  .  .  What's  the  idea?" 

"Mr.  Flint,"  she  answered,  a  bit  wearily,  "at 
least  I'm  a  guest  in  your  house,  am  I  not?" 

He  settled  back  in  his  seat  with  a  grunt  of  ac 
quiescence.  She  stood  dazed  for  a  moment,  sur- 

76 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

prised  at  the  chance  that  had  put  such  telling  words 
into  her  mouth.  She  had  been  fingering  timidly 
for  the  key  to  his  chivalry;  quite  by  accident  she 
had  hit  upon  it  in  the  shape  of  this  appeal  to  her 
expectations  of  him  in  the  r61e  of  host.  She  could 
have  lied,  of  course,  and  told  him  that  she  wished 
to  telephone  her  mother,  but  she  had  not  yet  been 
cornered  sufficiently  to  resort  to  so  distasteful  a 
weapon.  .  .  .  As  she  left  the  room  she  found  her 
self  wondering  whether  Stillman  had  by  any  chance 
left  the  Tom  Forsythes.  She  looked  at  the  clock. 
It  was  not  quite  eight  o'clock.  She  felt  reassured, 
yet  she  was  tremendously  frightened.  .  .  .  Especially 
as  she  realized  that  the  telephone  was  in  the  en 
trance  hall  within  earshot  of  the  dining-room.  .  .  . 

She  was  decidedly  more  frightened  when  she 
got  back  from  her  telephoning,  and  looked  at  Flint. 
He  was  clutching  at  the  table  with  both  hands, 
his  body  tilted  slightly  forward,  his  lips  ominously 
thin. 

"You  telephoned  to  the  Tom  Forsythes,  didn't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  asked  for  Stillman.  .  .  .  Did  you  get 
him?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  you  want  with  him?" 

"If  you  heard  that  much,  I  guess  you  heard  the 
rest,  Mr.  Flint." 

Claire  stood  at  her  place  at  the  table.  She  de 
cided  not  to  sit.  Flint  bore  down  on  both  hands 
until  things  began  to  creak. 

"Yes,  I  heard  everything,  but,  dammit  all,  I 
77 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

couldn't  believe  my  own  ears.  You're  like  every 
woman  I  ever  knew  .  .  .  you  don't  play  fair.  You 
appeal  to  my  instinct  as  host  and  then  you  go  and 
outrage  every  privilege  you've  got  me  to  concede. 
You're  a  pretty  guest,  you  are!  And  I  sit  here  and 
let  you  'play  me  for  a  fool.'  Let  you  ring  up  Ned 
Stillman  and,  ask  him  to  fetch  you  away  from  my 
house  in  his  car!'*  He  stopped  and  took  a  deep 
breath;  his  words  were  no  longer  passionate;  in 
stead,  they  were  precise  and  cool  and  venomous. 
"Understand  me,  young  lady,  I'm  through  with 
you.  I  wouldn't  care,  if  I  thought  you  were  really 
virtuous.  But  you're  too  clever  for  a  virtuous 
woman.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  dare  say  you  subscribe  to  the 
letter  of  the  law,  all  right.  For  instance,  you  take 
care  not  to  run  around  with  married  men  whose 
incumbrances  are  in  plain  view  of  the  audience  .  .  . 
Oh,  I've  seen  lots  of  clever  women  in  my  time,  but 
in  the  end  they  always  took  too  much  rope.  Re 
member,  you'll  have  your  bluff  called  some  day." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  noisily  and  rose.  The 
Japanese  servant  came  bobbing  along. 

"Clear  away  the  things!"  Flint  bellowed.  "We're 
through!  .  .  .  Good  night,  Miss  Robson,  and  a 
pleasant  journey  to  you — you  and  your  immaculate 
friend  Stillman." 

He  left  the  room  with  a  melodramatic  flourish. . . . 
Presently  Claire  heard  him  mounting  the  stairs. 

"He's  drunk!"  flashed  through  her  mind,  as  if  the 
idea  had  just  struck  her.  "Of  course,  he  must  be 
drunk,  otherwise  he  wouldn't  have  dared  to  .  .  ." 

She  went  out  into  the  entrance  hall  and  put  on 
her  hat. 

78 


CHAPTER  VII 

MIDWAY  between  Yolanda  and  Sausalito  Still- 
man's  machine  died  with  disconcerting  sud 
denness  The  rain  was  coming  down  in  sheets. 
Stillman  got  out. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  announced,  lifting  himself  back 
into  his  seat  "I  can't  do  anything  in  this  deluge." 

This  was  the  first  word  that  had  been  said  since 
he  and  Claire  had  left  Flint's. 

"The  worst  will  be  over  in  a  few  moments,"  re 
plied  Claire,  easily.  But  she  was  far  from  reassured. 

The  deluge  was  not  over  in  a  few  moments.  It 
kept  up  with  an  ever-increasing  violence,  until  it 
seemed  that  even  the  stalled  car  would  be  compelled 
to  yield  to  its  force.  Claire  had  never  seen  it  rain 
harder;  the  storm  had  a  vindictive  fury  that  re 
minded  her  of  the  dreadful  tempest  in  "King  Lear." 

Stillman  maintained  his  usual  well-bred  calm 
and  smoked  cigarettes  while  he  chattered.  He 
touched  on  every  conceivable  subject  but  the  one 
uppermost  in  Claire's  mind,  until  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  delicacy  or  contempt  veiled  his 
conversation.  A  half -hour  passed  .  .  .  an  hour  .  .  . 
two.  Still  the  rain  swept  from  the  sullen  sky. 
Twice  Stillman  made  a  futile  attempt  to  remedy  the 
trouble  with  his  engine,  and  twice  he  retired  de- 

79 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

feated  to  the  shelter  of  the  car.  Claire  was  relieved 
that  she  was  in  the  company  of  a  man  who  did  not 
emphasize  the  monotonous  hours  by  indiscriminate 
raillery  against  the  tricks  of  chance.  At  first  he 
dismissed  the  situation  with  the  most  casual  of 
shrugs;  later  he  acknowledged  his  annoyance  by 
an  expression  of  regret  at  his  companion's  dis 
comfort,  but  he  stopped  there. 

As  the  hours  went  on,  with  no  abatement  of  the 
storm's  devastating  energy,  Claire  grew  less  and 
less  pleased  at  the  prospect.  She  began  to  wonder 
whether  the  shelter  of  Flint's  roof  had  not  been, 
after  all,  the  discreet  thing.  Was  not  her  head 
long  flight  in  company  with  Stillman  more  open 
to  criticism  than  the  frank  acceptance  of  her  em 
ployer's  hospitality?  But  these  vagrant  questions 
were  the  spawn  of  a  colorless  spirit  of  social  ex 
pediency  which  fastens  itself  on  weak  natures,  and 
in  Claire's  case  they  died  still-born.  She  had  been 
too  well  schooled  in  loneliness  to  lean  heavily  on  the 
crooked  stick  of  public  opinion.  Accustomed  to 
standing  alone,  she  had  something  of  the  spiritual 
arrogance  that  goes  with  independence.  People 
could  think  what  they  liked.  And  it  was  more  a 
realization  of  her  mother's  anxiety  than  any  thought 
of  self  which  made  her  suggest  to  Stillman  that  they 
might  get  out  and  walk  into  Sausalito. 

"I  think  the  last  boat  leaves  there  at  twelve- 
thirty,"  she  finished.  "Surely  we  could  make  it 
if  we  keep  going." 

Stillman  thrust  his  arm  out  into  the  drenching 
rain,  and  withdrew  it  instantly.  "I'm  afraid  that's 
out  of  the  question,  so  long  as  the  rain  keeps  up, 

80 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Miss  Robson,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  implied  objec 
tion.  "Perhaps  if  it  should  stop  ..." 

Claire  settled  back  in  her  seat.  Stillman  was 
right.  The  storm  was  too  furious  to  be  lightly 
braved. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  a  quick  veering  of 
the  wind  brought  a  downpour  so  violent  that 
what  had  gone  before  seemed  little  better  than  a 
rather  weak  rehearsal. 

"It  will  clear  presently,"  Stillman  assured  Claire. 
"Southeaster  always  break  up  in  a  flurry  like  this 
from  the  west." 

In  ten  minutes  the  stars  were  peeping  brilliantly 
through  rents  in  the  torn  clouds.  Pungent  odors 
floated  up  from  the  rain-trampled  stubble  of  the 
hillsides,  the  air  was  cleared  of  its  stifling  oppres 
siveness,  the  first  storm  of  the  season  was  over 

Both  Claire  and  Stillman  clambered  out  at  the 
first  signs  of  the  storm's  exhaustion.  Stillman 
switched  on  his  pocket-light  and  began  to  investi 
gate  the  trouble  with  the  engine.  His  decision  was 
swift  and  conclusive. 

"It's  hopeless,"  he  announced,  turning  to  Claire 
with  a  slight  grimace.  "We're  stalled  absolutely 
and  no  mistake.  I  guess  we'd  better  strike  out  and 
walk.  No  doubt  we'll  get  a  lift  into  Sausalito 
before  we've  gone  very  far,  but  I  dare  say  it's  well 
to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

They  rolled  the  machine  to  one  side  of  the  road 
way  and  struck  out  hopefully.  The  rain  had  made 
a  thin  chocolate  ooze  of  the  highway,  and  before 
they  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  their  shoes  were 
slimy  with  mud.  It  appeared  that  Stillman  had 

81 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

been  something  of  an  aimless  wanderer  for  many 
years,  and  as  he  talked  on  and  on,  giving  detached 
glimpses  of  the  remote  places  he  had  visited,  Claire 
had  a  curious  sense  of  futility. 

She  read  between  his  clipped  and  vivid  sentences 
the  tragedy  of  a  personality  worsted  by  the  soft 
hands  of  circumstances.  This  man  might  have 
done  things.  As  it  was  he  was  an  idler.  He  gave 
her  the  impression  of  a  man  waiting  vaguely  for  op 
portunity — like  some  traveler  pacing  restlessly  up 
and  down  a  railway  station  platform  in  expectation 
of  the  momentary  arrival  of  a  delayed  train.  She 
tried  to  imagine  him  as  she  felt  sure  he  must  once 
have  been — youthful,  eager,  ardent,  a  man  of  charm 
ing  enthusiasms  that  just  missed  being  extrava 
gances,  who  could  bring  zest  to  his  virtues  as  well 
as  to  his  follies. 

"Surely,"  she  thought,  "something  more  than 
inclination  must  have  pushed  him  into  this  deadly 
stagnation." 

And  at  once  Miss  Hunch's  insinuating  question 
leaped  up  to  answer: 

"You  know  about  his  wife,  of  course!" 

Were  men  put  out  of  countenance  by  such  im 
personal  tricks  of  fortune?  Impersonal?  .  .  .  this 
domestic  tragedy?  .  .  .  Yes,  Claire  felt  that  it 
must  be,  otherwise  the  man  tramping  at  her  side 
would  have  wrestled  so  passionately  against  fate 
as  to  have  come  away  at  least  spattered  with  the 
mud  of  defeat.  No,  Stillman  was  not  defeated, 
he  was  merely  arrested,  restrained,  held  for  orders. 

He  had  been  in  London  when  the  war  broke  out. 
He  had  stayed  long  enough  to  watch  the  stolid^ 

82 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

easy-going  British  public  awake  to  the  seriousness 
of  the  encounter,  coming  home  after  the  first  air 
raids. 

"I  didn't  mind  being  killed,"  he  laughed,  in  ex 
planation  of  his  sudden  flight.  "But  I  didn't  like 
being  so  frightfully  messed  up  in  the  process.  I 
want  a  chance  to  strike  back  when  I'm  cornered. 
The  Zeppelin  game  was  too  much  like  a  rabbit- 
drive  to  suit  me." 

As  he  spoke  of  these  experiences,  Claire  listened 
with  a  quickening  of  the  spirit.  The  prospect  of 
finding  Stillman  vibrant  was  too  stirring  to  be  de 
nied.  But  he  was  still  sober  on  this  colossal  sub 
ject  of  war  ...  a  bit  judicial,  always  well  poised. 
He  had  his  sympathies,  but  they  did  not  appear 
vitalized  by  extravagances  of  feeling.  Yet  here 
and  there  Claire  was  conscious  of  truant  warmths, 
like  brief  flashes  of  sunlight  through  a  somber 
forest. 

"And  the  draft — what  do  you  think  of  that?" 
The  question  rose  to  her  lips  as  if  his  answer  might 
unlock  the  door  to  something  deeper  in  the  way  of 
convictions. 

He  began  with  a  shrug  that  chilled  her;  then  his 
reply  broke  with  sudden  refreshment: 

"It  helps  .  .  .  some  of  us.  There  are  many  who 
can't  decide  for  themselves.  The  obvious  duty 
isn't  always  the  correct  one.  In  my  case  ..." 

He  did  not  stop  speaking  suddenly,  but  his  voice 
trailed  off  into  a  dim  region  of  musing.  They  both 
fell  silent.  But  Claire  knew.  There  was  that 
haunting  hope,  almost  like  a  fear,  that  his  wife 
might  some  day  get  better.  That  was  what  he  was 

83 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

waiting  for!  It  might  come  to-morrow  .  .  .  next 
week  ...  in  a  year  .  .  .  never!  But  when  it 
did  come  he  felt  that  he  must  be  there,  ready.  She 
wondered  whether  he  loved  his  wife  very  much, 
and  she  found  herself  hoping  that  he  did.  ...  It 
would  help,  somehow  .  .  .  yes,  if  that  were  so  his 
sacrifice  gained  point.  On  the  other  hand  .  .  . 
She  put  the  thought  away  with  a  quick  thrust,  feel 
ing  that  she  had  no  right  to  such  a  speculation,  and 
presently  she  was  aware  that  they  were  swinging 
into  Sausalito. 

Stillman  looked  at  his  watch.  Twelve-thirty-five 
.  .  .  just  five  minutes  late  for  the  boat!  She  could 
see  that  he  was  disturbed. 

"I  thought  sure  we'd  get  a  lift,"  he  railed,  toss 
ing  aside  a  mangled  cigar.  "This  is  luck!  ...  I 
guess  we'll  have  to  rout  out  the  Sherwins.  It's 
something  of  a  pull  up  the  hill,  but  any  safe  port 
in  a  storm,  you  know." 

"The  Sherwins?" 

"Another  one  of  the  Edington  girls.  They  have 
a  bungalow  at  the  very  dizziest  point  in  Sausalito." 

But  Claire  objected  and  held  firm.  "I  couldn't 
think  of  it,  Mr.  Stillman.  No,  really!  .  .  .  Please 
don't  insist." 

They  agreed  on  a  lodging  for  Claire  in  a  freshly 
painted  but  otherwise  rather  decrepit  lodging-house, 
just  north  of  the  ferry-slip.  Its  chief  advantage 
was  that  it  seemed  quite  too  stagnant  to  be  any 
thing  but  respectable,  and  the  suppressed  grumbling 
of  the  old  shrew  whom  they  routed  out  confirmed 
their  estimate.  She  didn't  approve  of  couples  who 
dragged  God-fearing  old  women  out  of  bed  at  un- 

84 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

holy  hours  in  the  morning,  and  it  was  only  the 
generous  tip  from  Stillman  and  the  assurance  that 
he  intended  looking  elsewhere  for  quarters  for  him 
self  that  reconciled  her  to  her  loss  of  sleep  and  the 
compromise  with  her  convictions. 

For  a  good  half-hour  Claire  sat  with  folded  hands 
peering  out  from  her  room  upon  the  damp  hillside 
to  the  west.  From  across  the  street  came  the  bawdy 
thumping  of  a  mechanical  piano  and  the  swish  of 
a  sluggish  tide.  Her  encounter  with  Sawyer  Flint 
had  forced  the  door  of  her  virginal  seclusion  and 
thrust  her  at  once  into  the  primitive  and  elemental 
open.  She  felt  like  one  who  was  coming  out  of 
voluntary  exile  to  the  pathos  of  a  deferred  heritage. 
Before  her  stretched  the  eagle's  horizon,  but  she 
had  only  the  fledgling's  strength  of  wing.  She 
longed  for  the  faith  and  courage  and  daring  to  take 
life  at  its  word,  longed  with  all  the  dangerous  fierce 
ness  of  one  who  had  fed  too  long  upon  the  husks 
of  existence.  And,  longing,  she  fell  asleep,  sitting 
in  a  chair  before  the  open  window,  without  thought 
or  preparation.  .  .  . 

The  morning  broke  cloudless.  All  traces  of  the 
night's  fury  were  obliterated  as  completely  as  sorrow 
from  the  face  of  a  smiling  child.  The  sun  touched 
the  open  spaces  with  a  tender,  caressing  warmth, 
but  the  shadows  held  a  keen-edged  chill. 

Claire  decided  upon  an  early  boat  to  town. 

"I'll  be  less  likely  to  meet  any  of  the  California 
Street  crowd,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  picked  her 
brief  way  toward  the  ferry. 

The  boat  was  crowded,  especially  the  lower  cabin. 
85 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

It  was  the  artisans'  boat  and  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  smoke  of  pipe-tobacco.  Claire  passed  rapidly 
to  the  dining-room.  Perched  upon  the  high  re 
volving  chairs  surrounding  a  horseshoe  counter, 
a  score  or  more  of  soft-shirted  men  sat  devouring 
huge  greasy  doughnuts  and  gulping  coffee.  The 
steward,  taking  note  of  Claire's  hesitation,  came 
forward  and  led  her  to  a  seat  at  one  of  the  side 
tables.  She  was  about  to  take  advantage  of  the 
chair  which  he  had  drawn  out  for  her  when  she 
heard  her  name  called.  She  turned.  Miss  Hunch's 
cousin,  Mrs.  Richards,  was  sitting  alone  at  the  table 
just  behind.  Claire's  first  feeling  was  one  of  re 
lief — she  was  glad  to  discover  an  acquaintance. 
She  thanked  the  steward  for  his  trouble  and  aban 
doned  the  proffered  seat  for  the  one  opposite  Mrs. 
Richards.  Almost  at  once  she  regretted  her  im 
pulsive  decision. 

"I  didn't  know  you  intended  staying  at  Flint's 
all  night,"  Mrs.  Richards  began,  fixing  Claire  with 
a  challenging  gaze. 

"I  didn't  intend  to,"  returned  Claire,  her  voice 
sharpened  slightly. 

Mrs.  Richards  took  the  lid  off  the  sugar-bowl  and 
powdered  her  grapefruit  sparingly.  "Have  they  a 
nice  home?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes,  very  nice." 

"They  gave  you  an  early  start,  didn't  they?  .  .  . 
It's  almost  impossible  to  get  servants  these  days 
to  consider  such  a  thing  as  serving  breakfast  much 
before  eight  o'clock." 

Claire  glanced  at  the  bill  of  fare.  Mrs.  Richards's 
tone  was  a  trifle  too  eager.  "I  suppose  it  is," 

86 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  assented,  placing  the  menu-card  back  in  its 
place  between  the  vinegar  and  oil  cruets. 

Mrs.  Richards  remained  unabashed  at  her  vis 
a-vis's  palpable  indirectness.  "I  guess  I'm  old- 
fashioned,  but,  servants  or  no  servants,  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  could  let  a  guest  of  mine  leave  the  house 
without  breakfast.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I'd  been 
Mrs.  Flint  I'd  have  gotten  up  and  made  you  a  cup 
of  coffee  myself." 

Claire's  growing  annoyance  was  swallowed  up 
in  a  feeling  of  faint  amusement.  "  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Flint  wasn't  home,"  she  said,  beckoning  the  waiter. 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Richards  exclaimed  with  shocked 
brevity. 

It  was  not  until  the  arrival  of  Claire's  order  of 
toast  and  coffee  that  Mrs.  Richards  found  her  voice 
again. 

"This  business  of  wives  staying  from  home  all 
night  gets  me,"  Mrs.  Richards  hazarded,  boldly. 
"Why,  I  never  remember  the  time  when  my  mother 
remained  away  overnight  .  .  .  not  under  any  cir 
cumstances.  My  father  expected  her  to  be  there, 
and  she  always  was" 

Claire  distributed  bits  of  butter  over  the  surface 
of  her  toast.  She  felt  that  in  justice  to  the  Flint 
family  it  was  not  right  for  her  to  give  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards's  dangerous  tongue  any  further  scope,  however 
tempting  was  the  prospect  of  leaving  such  venomous 
inquisitiveness  ungratified. 

"I  think  you  misunderstood  me,  Mrs.  Richards. 
I  didn't  say  that  Mrs.  Flint  remained  away  from 
home  last  night.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  didn't  stay 
at  Yolanda,  so  I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

87 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Oh!"  faintly  escaped  Mrs.  Richards  for  the 
second  time  that  morning,  but  Claire  was  con 
scious  that  there  was  more  incredulity  than  sur 
prise  registered  in  the  lady's  tone. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Claire  continued,  stung 
to  incautious  exasperation,  "I  spent  the  night  in 
Sausalito." 

Mrs.  Richards  met  this  information  with  a  dis- 
armingly  bland  smile.  "I  didn't  know  you  had 
friends  in  Sausalito,"  she  said,  letting  a  spoonful 
of  coffee  trickle  back  into  her  cup. 

"I  haven't.  I  spent  the  night  in  a  lodging-house 
...  on  the  water-front.  ..." 

"My  dear  Miss  Robson,  really  I  ...  Why,  I 
hope  you  don't  think  I  was  inquisitive!" 

It  was  the  simplicity  of  the  challenge  that  made 
it  impossible  to  be  ignored.  Claire  knew  that  she 
was  trapped,  but  she  was  angry  enough  to  decide 
on  some  reservation. 

"The  storm  put  the  track  between  Yolanda  and 
Sausalito  out  of  commission,"  Claire  found  herself 
snapping  back  too  eagerly  at  her  tormentor.  "We 
tried  to  make  the  last  boat  by  auto,  but  we  got 
stalled  and  missed  it.  We  had  to  walk  a  good  half 
of  the  way." 

"I  shouldn't  think  that  would  have  done  Mr. 
Flint's  cold  any  good,"  Mrs.  Richards  said,  drawl- 
ingly. 

"Mr.  Flint's  cold?  ...  I  don't  quite  see  what 
that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"Oh,  you  said  'we'  I  somehow  got  the  impres 
sion.  .  .  ." 

"No,  Mrs.  Richards,  you've  misunderstood  me 
88 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

again."  Claire  threw  a  cool,  even  glance  at  her 
antagonist.  "I  made  the  trip  from  Yolanda  to 
Sausalito  in  Mr.  Stillman's  car." 

1  'Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Richards  for  a  third  time,  and 
in  this  instance  her  voice  was  warm  with  grati 
fication. 

Claire  directed  her  attention  to  her  plate  of  but 
tered  toast  and  her  cup  of  coffee.  She  was  cha 
grined  to  think  that  she  had  fallen  so  easily  into 
Mrs.  Richards's  very  obvious  traps.  Not  that  it 
mattered.  She  was  quite  sure  that  the  truth  could 
not  harm  Stillman,  and  she  was  equally  sure  that 
her  position  in  life  was  too  obscure  to  stand  out 
conspicuously  against  the  darts  of  Mrs.  Richards's 
vindictive  tongue.  But  she  had  the  pride  of  her 
reticences  and  she  did  not  like  to  surrender  these 
privileges  at  the  point  of  insolent  curiosity.  The 
two  continued  to  eat  in  silence. 

It  was  Mrs.  Richards  who  finished  first,  and  she 
dipped  her  fingers  hurriedly  into  the  battered  metal 
finger-bowl  which  the  Japanese  bus-boy  thrust 
before  her. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  go  along?"  she  inquired  of 
Claire,  with  an  air  of  polite  triumph.  ' '  I  think  I'll  go 
forward  where  I  can  get  a  quick  start  .  .  .  before 
the  crowd  gets  too  thick.  I've  got  a  million  er 
rands  to  do  before  nine  o'clock.  And  I  do  want  to 
run  into  the  office  before  Gertie  settles  down  to 
work.  I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  week  and  I've  got 
more  things  to  tell  her!" 

7 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHY,  Miss  Claire,  how  could  you!    Where 
have  you  been  ?    And  your  mother  in  such 
a  bad  way!"     Mrs.  Finnegan  broke  into  sudden 
tears. 

Claire,  fumbling  in  her  bag  for  the  front-door 
key,  looked  up.  Mrs.  Finnegan  had  swung  open 
the  door  to  the  Robson  flat  and  she  stood  like  a 
vision  of  disaster  upon  the  threshold. 

' '  What  has  happened  ?"  Claire's  voice  rose  with 
a  note  of  swift  apprehension. 

"Your  mother  .  .  .  she's  paralyzed!  She  was 
taken  last  night.  The  doctor  says  it  would  have 
happened,  anyway.  But  I  say  it  was  worry,  that's 
what  it  was.  With  you  away  all  night  and  never 
a  word!" 

Claire  climbed  the  stairs  in  silence,  aware  that 
Mrs.  Finnegan  was  following  at  a  discreet  distance. 
Already  the  house  seemed  permeated  with  an  at 
mosphere  of  tragedy  and  gloom  in  spite  of  the 
morning  light  pouring  in  unscreened  at  every  win 
dow.  Mrs.  Robson's  room  was  the  only  exception 
to  this  unusual  excess  of  cold  radiance — unusual, 
because  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Robson's  prides  to  keep 
her  window-shades  lowered  to  a  uniform  and  gen 
teel  distance. 

90 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Until  Claire  came  face  to  face  with  her  mother 
she  almost  had  fancied  that  her  neighbor  was  in 
dulging  in  a  crude  and  terrible  joke,  but  one  look 
sufficed.  Mrs.  Robson  lay  staring  vacantly  at  the 
ceiling;  she  could  not  move,  she  could  not  speak, 
and  her  spirit  showed  through  the  veiled  light  in 
her  eyes  like  a  mysterious  spot  of  sunshine  in  a 
shaded  well.  Above  a  swooning  sense  of  calam 
ity  Claire  felt  the  strength  of  a  tender  pretense 
struggling  to  communicate  its  vague  hope  to  the 
stricken  form.  She  raised  the  window  -  shade 
slightly  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed. 

"Why,  mother,  what's  all  this?"  she  began,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  banter,  as  she  stroked  the  helpless 
hands.  ''Were  you  worried?  I'm  so  sorry!  I 
asked  Miss  Munch  to  let  you  know.  Didn't  she? 
...  I  went  over  to  Mr.  Flint's  to  take  dictation. 
The  storm  washed  out  the  track.  I  tried  to  make 
the  boat  in  Mr.  Stillman's  car,  but  we  broke 
down  and  missed  it.  ...  I  had  to  stay  all  night  in 
Sausalito." 

Mrs.  Robson,  stirring  faintly,  attempted  to 
speak.  Claire  turned  helplessly  to  Mrs.  Finnegan. 
"I  can't  make  out  what  she  is  trying  to  say." 

Mrs.  Finnegan  bent  an  attentive  ear.  "It's 
about  Stillman,"  she  explained.  "Your  mother 
don't  understand  why  ..." 

The  speaker  stopped  with  significant  discretion. 
It  was  plain  to  Claire  that  nobody  understood,  and 
she  felt  a  dreary  futility  as  she  answered  both  her 
mother  and  Mrs.  Finnegan  with: 

"It's  a  long  story.  Some  other  time,  when  .  .  . 
when  you're  feeling  better." 

91 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

A  look  of  gray  disappointment  crossed  Mrs.  Rob- 
son's  face.  Mrs.  Finnegan's  upper  lip  seemed 
shaped  suddenly  with  a  suspicion  that  died  almost 
as  quickly  as  it  began.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell. 
" That's  the  doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Finnegan,  and  she 
left  to  open  the  door. 

The  doctor  chilled  Claire  with  his  steely  non 
chalance  as  she  stood  apart  while  he  went  through 
the  usual  forms  of  a  professional  visit  that  was  ob 
viously  futile.  She  followed  him  to  the  front  door. 
He  answered  her  eager  inquiries  with  the  cold  tri 
umph  of  authority. 

"How  long  will  she  last?  .  .  .  Well,  Miss  Rob- 
son,  that  is  hard  to  say.  She  might  go  off  to-night. 
Then,  again,  she  might  live  twenty  years.  She'll 
scarcely  get  any  better,  though.  No,  a  nurse  isn't 
essential,  unless  you  can  afford  one.  But  you 
ought  to  have  another  woman  about.  If  you  have 
any  relatives  you'd  better  send  for  them  and  let 
them  help  out." 

Claire  did  not  find  the  doctor's  announcement 
that  her  mother  might  die  at  once  nearly  so  brutal 
as  his  assurance  that  she  had  an  equal  chance 
for  existing  twenty  years.  Twenty  years!  Claire 
closed  the  door  and  sank  upon  the  steps  over 
whelmed. 

But  there  was  scant  leisure  on  this  first  dreadful 
day  of  Mrs.  Robson's  illness  for  theatrical  exuber 
ances.  Claire,  unaccustomed  to  the  routine  of 
household  duties,  took  a  thousand  unnecessary 
steps.  She  tried  to  work  calmly,  to  bring  an  ac 
quired  philosophy  to  her  tasks,  but  she  went  through 
her  paces  with  a  feverish,  though  stolid,  anxiety. 

92 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

The  long  night  which  followed  was  inconceivably 
a  thing  of  horror.  Her  wakeful  moments  were 
dry-eyed  with  despair,  and  when  she  slept  it  was 
only  to  come  back  to  a  shivering  consciousness. 

Mrs.  Finnegan  found  her  next  morning  fresh 
from  an  attempt  to  rouse  her  mother  into  accepting 
a  few  swallows  of  milk,  which  had  ended  in  pathetic 
and  miserable  failure.  She  had  thrown  herself  in 
an  abandon  of  grief  across  the  narrow  kitchen  table, 
and  the  coffee  from  an  overturned  cup  was  trickling 
in  a  warm,  thick  stream  to  the  floor.  But  the 
paroxysm  did  her  good.  She  rose  to  the  kindly 
caresses  of  her  neighbor  like  a  flower  beaten  to 
earth  but  refreshed  by  a  relentless  torrent.  After 
this,  custom  and  habit  began  to  reassert  themselves 
in  spite  of  the  crushing  weight  of  circumstance. 
She  'phoned  to  the  office.  Mr.  Flint  had  returned, 
they  told  her.  She  explained  her  trouble  to  the 
cashier.  "Ill  try  to  be  back  the  first  of  the  week," 
she  finished,  in  a  burst  of  illogical  hope. 

Later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Robson's  two  sisters  ar 
rived  in  answer  to  Claire's  summons.  Claire's  im 
pulse  to  send  for  them  had  been  purely  instinctive — 
an  atrophied  survival  of  clan-spirit  that  persisted 
beyond  any  real  faith  in  its  significance.  Perhaps 
she  had  a  feeling  that  her  mother  wished  it;  cer 
tainly  she  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  unwelcome  news  of  Mrs.  Robson's  illness  would 
be  received  by'these  two  self-centered  females. 

It  was  Mrs.  Thomas  Wynne  who  came  in  first, 
bundled  mysteriously  in  her  furs  and  holding  a 
glass  of  wine  jelly  as  a  conventional  symbol  of  the 
r61e  of  Lady  Bountiful  which  she  had  for  the  mo- 

93 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ment  assumed.  Claire  could  almost  fancy  how 
conspicuously  she  had  contrived  to  carry  this  over 
worked  badge  of  the  humanities,  and  the  languid 
drawl  of  her  voice  as  she  explained  to  her  friends 
en  route: 

''So  sorry  I  can't  stop  and  chat.  But,  as  you  see, 
I'm  running  along  to  a  sick-room.  ...  Oh  no, 
nothing  serious,  I  hope !  Just  my  sister.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
yfinch-Brown ?  Oh,  dear  no!  A  younger  sister. 
I  don't  think  you  know  her.  She's  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  and  hasn't  been  about  much  for  a 
number  of  years." 

Mrs.  Thomas  Wynne  had  the  trick  of  intrench 
ing  a  stubborn  family  pride  by  throwing  back  her 
head  and  daring  all  comers  to  uncover  any  of  the 
Carrol  clan's  shortcomings.  But  her  selfishness 
had  at  least  the  virtue  of  a  live-and-let-live  attitude 
that  contrasted  with  the  futile  aggressiveness  of 
Mrs.  Edward  Ffinch-Brown.  She  asked  Claire 
no  questions  concerning  her  life  or  her  prospects; 
she  did  not  even  pry  very  deeply  into  the  chances 
that  her  sister  had  for  an  ultimate  recovery.  Her 
philosophy  seemed  to  be  founded  on  the  knowl 
edge  that  uncovered  cesspools  were  bound  to  be 
unpleasant,  and,  since  she  had  no  desire  to  assist 
in  their  purification,  she  was  quite  content  to  keep 
them  properly  screened.  She  came  and  deposited 
her  wine  jelly  and  patted  her  sister's  hand  and  went 
away  again  without  leaving  even  a  ripple  in  her 
wake.  As  she  departed  she  gave  further  proof  of 
her  insolent  insincerity  by  calling  back  at  Claire: 

"Remember,  Claire,  if  there  is  anything  I  can 
do,  just  let  me  know." 

94 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown's  visit  was  scarcely  more 
comforting,  but  decidedly  more  exciting.  She  had 
not  the  suavity  of  her  indifferences.  Mrs.  Robson's 
untimely  tilt  with  fate  irritated  her,  and  she  took 
no  pains  to  conceal  this  fact. 

"I  suppose  your  mother  is  just  as  she's  always 
been — a  creature  of  nerves,"  she  said,  as  she  dropped 
into  a  seat  for  a  preliminary  session  with  Claire 
before  venturing  upon  the  unwelcome  sight  of  her 
stricken  sister.  "I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  she 
seems  to  be  one  of  those  people  who  always  has  had 
something  the  matter  with  her.  Poor  Emily! 
Well,  I  suppose  we  are  all  made  differently." 

When  she  entered  the  sick-room  she  found  fault 
with  the  arrangement  of  the  bed,  the  manner  in 
which  the  covers  slipped  off,  the  uncovered  glass 
of  medicine  on  the  bureau. 

"You  should  braid  your  mother's  hair,  too.  And 
why  don't  you  pull  the  window  down  from  the  top  ?" 

Claire  stood  in  sullen  silence  while  her  aunt  vented 
a  personal  annoyance  on  the  nearest  objects.  But 
when  Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown's  ill-natured  ministra 
tions  brought  a  dumb  but  protesting  misery  to 
the  sufferer's  face,  Claire  found  the  courage  to  say, 
as  gently  as  she  could: 

"Why  bother,  Aunt  Julia?  Mother  is  really 
too  sick  now  to  care  much  about  appearances?" 

This  was  just  what  Claire's  aunt  had  hoped  for. 
It  gave  her  a  chance  for  escape  without  any  strain 
upon  her  conscience.  She  did  not  remain  long 
after  what  she  was  pleased  to  consider  a  rebuff. 

"Well,  Claire,  I  see  I  can't  be  of  much  help,"  she 
announced  as  she  powdered  her  nose  before  the 

95 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

shabby  hat-rack  mirror  and  drew  on  her  gloves.  .  .  . 
After  she  was  gone  Claire  found  a  five-dollar  bill 
on  the  living-room  table.  She  opened  the  gilt- 
edged  copy  of  Tennyson  that,  together  with  a  calf 
edition  of  Ouida's  Moths,  had  stood  for  years 
as  guard  over  the  literary  pretensions  of  the  house 
hold,  and  thrust  the  money  midway  between  its 
covers,  Doubtless  a  time  was  coming  when  she 
would  find  it  necessary  to  use  this  money,  but  the 
present  moment  was  too  charged  with  the  giver's 
resentful  benevolence  to  make  such  a  compromise 
possible. 

For  three  consecutive  days  Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown 
swooped  down  upon  the  Robson  household  and  gave 
vent  to  her  pique.  She  had  been  divorced  so  long 
from  these  melancholy  relations  of  hers  that  she 
had  really  forgotten  their  existence,  and  she  dis 
played  all  the  rancor  of  a  woman  who  discovers 
suddenly  a  moth  hole  in  the  long  undisturbed  folds 
of  a  treasured  cashmere  shawl.  Her  precisely 
timed  visits  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
attentiveness  back  of  them,  and  Claire  guessed 
almost  at  once  that  they  were  more  in  the  nature 
of  assaults  carried  on  in  the  hope  that  she  would 
meet  enough  opposition  to  insure  an  honorable 
retreat.  Unlike  Mrs.  Thomas  Wynne,  Aunt  Julia 
inquired  minutely  into  family  matters,  insisted  on 
knowing  Claire's  plans,  and  was  aggressively  free 
with  advice. 

11  You  ought  to  be  making  plans,  Claire,"  she  said, 
at  the  conclusion  of  her  second  visit.  "You  can't 
go  on  like  this.  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  do  more,  but 
of  course  I  can't  spare  much  time.  And  next  week 

96 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

you'll  have  to  be  getting  into  harness  again.  You'd 
better  think  it  over." 

And  on  the  next  day,  finding  that  Claire  ob 
viously  had  not  thought  it  over,  she  threw  out  a  hint 
that  was  little  save  a  thinly  veiled  threat.  She 
came  in  with  a  more  genial  manner  than  she  was 
accustomed  to  waste  upon  the  desert  air  of  penury, 
and  Claire,  well  schooled  in  reading  the  significance 
of  proverbial  calms,  had  a  misgiving. 

''I've  been  talking  to  Miss  Morton  .  .  .  about 
your  mother,"  Mrs.  Ffmch-Brown  began,  without 
bothering  to  lead  up  to  the  subject.  "You  know 
Alice  Morton.  .  .  .  Well,  your  mother  does,  any 
way.  I  bumped  into  her  yesterday,  quite  by  ac 
cident  ...  at  a  Red  Cross  meeting.  It  seems 
she's  one  of  the  directors  of  The  King's  Daughters' 
Home  for  Incurables!"  Claire  was  sitting  opposite 
her  aunt,  nervously  fingering  a  paper-cutter.  Mrs. 
Ffinch-Brown  eyed  her  niece  sharply,  and  with  an 
obvious  determination  to  drive  her  thrusts  home 
before  her  victim  recovered  from  the  first  vicious 
stabs  she  continued:  "It  seems  they  haven't  a 
great  deal  of  room  out  there,  but  she  thinks  she 
could  arrange  things.  They'll  raise  the  price  to 
two  thousand  dollars  after  the  fifteenth  of  the 
month,  so  I  thought  that — •" 

"Oh,  not  quite  yet,  Aunt  Julia!  .  .  .  Mother 
has  a  chance.  Surely  ..." 

"Now,  Claire,  don't  get  hysterical.  You're  a 
business  woman  and  you  ought  to  be  practical  if 
any  of  us  are.  The  price  to-day  is  one  thousand 
dollars.  Think  of  it!  Care  for  life  in  a  ward  with 
only  three  others!  Now  I  can't  ask  your  uncle  for 

97 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

any  more  than  is  necessary  in  a  case  like  this.  If 
we  make  up  our  mind  promptly  we  can  save  just 
one  thousand  dollars." 

For  the  moment  Claire  felt  the  harried  despera 
tion  of  a  cornered  animal.  She  had  never  seen 
anything  more  disagreeable  than  her  aunt's  side 
long  glance.  She  felt  herself  rise  from  her  seat 
with  cold  dignity. 

"I'm  afraid,  Aunt  Julia,  I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  as  quickly  as  you  wish.  It  isn't  so  simple 
as  it  seems.  I'm  not  above  a  plan  like  this  if  I'm 
convinced  it's  necessary.  But  somehow  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  know  what  you're  thinking — you're  thinking 
that  beggars  shouldn't  be  choosers.  Well,  I'm 
not  quite  a  beggar  yet.  But  when  I  am,  I  won't 
choose  .  .  .  I'll  promise  you  that." 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  rose  also.  She  was  in  a  posi 
tion  to  triumph  in  any  case,  and  she  was  washing 
her  hands  of  the  situation  with  eager  satisfaction. 
"Oh,  indeed !  I'm  glad  you  can  say  that  now.  B ut 
you  weren't  always  so  independent.  I  suppose 
it  never  occurs  to  you  to  thank  me  for  what  I  did 
when  you  were  younger." 

Claire  felt  quite  calm.  The  events  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours  had  wrung  her  emotions  dry. 
"Yes,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  cool 
defiance,  "it  occurred  to  me  many  times.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  if  I'd  had  any  choice  ..." 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  grew  pale.  "It's  plain  that 
I'm  wasting  my  time  here!"  she  sneered. 

Claire  went  with  her  aunt  to  the  door.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  did  not  cross  the  threshold 
of  the  Robson  home  again,  and  when  on  the  fol- 

98 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

lowing  day  Claire  saw  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Thomas 
Wynne  outlined  against  the  lace-screened  front 
door  she  let  the  bell  ring  unanswered. 

The  dismissal  of  the  last  of  the  Carrol  clan  from 
any  participation  in  the  Robson  destinies  gave 
Claire  a  feeling  at  once  independent  and  solitary. 
There  had  been  a  vague  hope  that  this  crisis  might 
germinate  some  stray  seeds  of  kinship,  shriveled 
by  the  drought  of  uneventful  years.  But  the  poi 
sonous  nettles  of  memory  were  the  only  harvest  that 
had  sprung  from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Robson's 
sisters,  and  Claire  was  glad  to  uproot  the  arid 
product  of  their  shallowness. 

The  week  came  to  a  close  with  a  rush  of  visitors. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  everybody  knew  of  Mrs. 
Robsc •••:'s  illness.  Fellow  church  members,  old 
school  friends,  casual  acquaintances  began  to  ring 
the  front-door  bell  insistently.  Knowing  her 
mother's  instinctive  craving  for  recognition,  it 
struck  Claire  that  it  was  the  height  of  irony  to  see 
this  belated  crowd  come  swarming  in  on  the  heels 
of  calamity  at  the  moment  when  Mrs.  Robson  was 
unable  to  so  much  as  see  them.  Mrs.  Robson 
would  have  so  liked  to  sit  in  even  a  threadbare 
pomp  and  receive  the  homage  of  her  visitors,  but 
fate  had  been  scurvy  enough  to  withhold  this  scant 
triumph. 

Nellie  Whitehead  breezed  in  on  Saturday  after 
noon  just  as  Mrs.  Finnegan's  cuckoo  clock  cooed 
the  stroke  of  three;  immediately  the  air  began  to 
move  out  of  adversity's  tragic  current.  It  was 
impossible  to  be  wholly  without  hope  under 

99 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  impetus  of  Nellie  Whitehead's  flaming  good 
humor. 

"I'm  all  out  of  breath,"  she  began,  as  she  flopped 
into  the  first  chair  that  came  handy.  "I  keep  for 
getting  I  ain't  sweet  sixteen  any  more  and  never 
been  kissed.  I  hate  to  walk  slow,  though.  Don't 
you?  Say,  but  you  are  up  against  it,  ain't  you!  I 
saw  that  Munch  dame  on  the  street  and  she  nearly 
broke  her  old  neck  trying  to  catch  up  with  me. 
I  wondered  what  was  the  matter,  because  she  ain't 
usually  so  keen  about  flagging  me.  But,  you  know, 
she  never  misses  a  trick  at  spilling  out  the  calamity 
stuff,  especially  if  it  isn't  on  her.  .  .  .  'Oh,  Miss 
Whitehead,'  she  called  out  before  I  had  a  chance 
to  beat  it,  'have  you  heard  about  Miss  Robson's 
mother?'  .  .  .  When  she  got  through  I  fixed  her 
with  that  trusty  old  eye  of  mine  and  I  said,  'I 
suppose  you  see  her  quite  often.'  And  what  do 
you  think  the  old  stiff  said?  'Oh,  I'd  like  to,  Miss 
Whitehead,  but  I  really  haven't  had  time.  You 
know  I'm  doing  all  Mr.  Flint's  dictation  now.' 
And  she  had  the  nerve  to  try  and  slip  me  a  hint 
that  she  was  going  to  keep  on  doing  it.  But  I  just 
said  to  myself:  'You  should  kid  yourself  that  way, 
old  girl!  When  Flint  picks  a  bloomer  like  you  to 
ornament  the  back  office  it  will  be  because  his 
eyesight's  failed  him.'  ...  By  the  way,  how  do 
you  manage  to  stand  him  off — with  religious  tracts 
or  a  hat-pin?" 

She  hardly  waited  for  Claire's  reply,  but  plunged 
at  once  into  another  monologue. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  up  to?  I  got  my  eye 
on  the  swellest  fur-lined  coat  you  ever  saw  ...  at 

100 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Magnin's.  But  you  can  bet  I'm  going  to  keep  my 
eye  on  it  until  after  the  holidays.  They  want  a  hun 
dred  and  a  quarter  for  it  now,  but  they'll  be  glad 
to  take  sixty-five  when  the  gay  festivities  are  over, 
or  I  miss  my  guess.  I  go  in  every  other  day  to 
have  a  look  at  it,  and  when  the  girl's  back  is  turned 
I  hang  it  back  in  the  case  myself — 'way  back  where 
everybody  else  will  overlook  it.  Oh,  I  know  the 
game  all  right.  I  did  the  same  thing  with  a  three- 
piece  suit  last  summer.  But  I  say,  All  is  fair  in 
war  and  the  high  cost  of  living.  Maybe  you  think 
I  haven't  had  a  time  scraping  the  wherewithal  for 
that  coat  together.  But  I  brought  the  total  up 
to  seventy  the  other  day  by  getting  Billy  Holmes 
to  slip  me  a  ten  in  advance  for  Christmas.  I 
never  trust  a  man  to  invest  in  anything  for  me  if 
I  can  help  it.  They  usually  run  to  manicure  sets 
in  satin-lined  cases  or  cut-glass  cologne-bottles. 
Billy  Holmes?  ...  Oh,  you  know  him!  He  ran 
the  reinsurance  desk  at  the  Royal  for  years. 
They  put  him  on  the  road  last  week.  He's  some 
live  wire.  And  what's  better,  he  has  no  incum- 
brances.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Robson,  I'm  get 
ting  kind  of  tired  of  the  goings.  I'm  just  about 
ready  to  settle  down  by  the  old  steam-radiator. 
And  as  long  as  I've  got  eyesight  enough  to  look 
the  field  over,  I've  decided  on  a  traveling-man  or  a 
sea-captain.  They'll  be  sticking  around  home  just 
about  often  enough  to  suit  me.  .  .  .  Not  that  I'm 
a  man-hater,  but  I've  never  had  'em  for  a  steady 
diet  and  I'm  not  going  to  begin  to  get  the  habit 
this  late  day." 

Nellie  Whitehead  stayed  about  an  hour,   and, 

101 


THE  BLOOD  £ED  DAWN 

as  Claire  opened  the  front  door  upon  her  friend's 
departure  the  letter-man  thrust  an  envelope  into 
her  hands.  She  opened  it  hastily  and  turned  sud 
denly  white. 

"Well,  Robson,  what's  wrong  now?"  inquired 
Nellie. 

"Flint  .  .  .  he's  let  me  out.  .  .  .  Miss  Munch 
was  right!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  the  selfsame  Saturday  of  Claire's  dismissal 
from  the  office  ranks  of  the  Falcon  Insurance 
Company  Ned  Stillman  was  the  recipient  of  an 
early  telephone  message  from  Lily  Condor.  It 
appeared  that  Flora  Menzies,  the  young  woman 
who  usually  accompanied  her  in  her  vocal  flights, 
had  been  laid  low  with  pneumonia  and  she  wanted 
Stillman  to  persuade  Claire  Robson  to  succeed  to  the 
honorary  position. 

"She  did  so  famously  on  that  night  of  our  musi- 
cale,"  Lily  Condor  had  explained,  "and  Flora  won't 
be  in  shape  again  for  a  good  three  months.  Of 
course,  there  isn't  anything  in  it  but  glory.  I'm 
just  one  of  those  *  sweet  charity*  artists.  But  I 
think  she  is  a  dear,  and  I  know  that  you  have 
influence." 

Stillman  pretended  to  be  annoyed  at  Mrs.  Con 
dor's  assumption  that  his  word  would  carry  any 
weight  in  the  matter,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
felt  pleased  in  secret  masculine  fashion.  Chancing 
to  pass  Flint's  office  at  the  noon  hour,  he  dropped 
in.  It  happened  that  Miss  Munch  was  standing 
near  the  counter,  and  she  answered  his  inquiries 
with  suave  eagerness. 

"Oh,  Miss  Robson  isn't  with  us  any  more.  She 
103 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

hasn't  been  here  for  over  a  week — not  since  her 
mother  was  taken  sick.  Oh,  I  thought  you  knew. 
You're  Mr.  Stillman,  aren't  you?  I've  heard  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Richards,  speak  of  you.  Miss  Rob- 
son  went  over  to  Mr.  Flint's  on  that  night  of  the 
storm  and  she  missed  the  boat  or  something — you 
know!  And  when  she  got  home  next  morning  she 
found  that  her  mother  had  worried  herself  into  a 
stroke.  They  say  she  is  quite  helpless.  ...  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  she  intends  doing.  We 
mailed  her  check  yesterday.  It's  always  hard  to 
land  another  position  when  one  is  dismissed." 

Stillman  escaped  quickly.  Miss  Munch 's  venom 
was  a  thing  too  crude  and  unconcealed  to  face  with 
indifference.  Her  emphatic  "you  know"  was  preg 
nant  with  innuendo  and  malice.  Still,  it  did  not 
occur  to  Stillman  that  he  had  any  part  in  Claire 
Robson's  misfortune.  But  he  did  know  from  Miss 
Munch 's  tone  that  the  unfortunate  situation,  grow 
ing  out  of  the  automobile  ride  from  Yolanda  to 
Sausalito,  had  received  due  recognition  at  the  hands 
of  those  who  made  a  business  of  blowing  out  bub 
bles  of  scandal  from  the  suds  of  chance.  It  was 
useless  for  him  to  deny  that  Claire  Robson  from 
the  first  had  been  of  more  or  less  interest.  She 
seemed  to  rise  in  such  a  detached  fashion  from  her 
environment. 

He  had  to  admit,  as  later  he  sat  in  the  cloistered 
silences  of  his  club  library  and  blew  contemplative 
smoke-rings  into  the  air,  that  a  certain  idle  curi 
osity  had  been  the  mainspring  of  his  concern  for 
her.  He  had  been  like  a  boy  who  captured  a  strange 
butterfly  and  clapped  it  under  a  glass  tumbler 

104 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

where  he  could  watch  how  easily  it  would  adapt 
itself  to  its  new  surroundings.  But,  having  caught 
the  butterfly  and  held  it  a  brief  captive,  the  dust 
from  its  wings  still  lingered  upon  the  hands  that 
imprisoned  it.  He  had  made  the  mistake  of  imag 
ining  that  one  is  always  master  of  casual  incidents. 
To  meet  a  young  woman  by  the  most  trivial  chance, 
to  extend  a  brief  courtesy  to  her,  these  were  matters 
which  hold  scarcely  the  germs  of  a  menacing  situ 
ation,  not  menacing  to  him,  of  course — they  never 
could  be  menacing  to  him;  he  was  still  thinking 
of  things  from  the  viewpoint  of  Claire  Robson. 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  annoyed  at  having  been 
mixed  up  in  Claire's  flight  from  the  Flint  house 
hold.  Had  Flint  been  a  complete  stranger  he  would 
not  have  minded  so  much.  He  was  still  divided 
by  the  appeal  to  his  chivalry  and  the  sense  of  loy 
alty  that  a  man  feels  to  the  masculine  friends  of 
his  youth.  In  her  telephone  message  Claire  had 
put  the  matter  very  casually — the  track  was  washed 
out  and  she  was  wondering  whether  he  contemplated 
returning  to  town  that  evening.  But  he  guessed 
at  once  what  lay  back  of  her  matter-of-fact  bold 
ness.  He  had  guessed  so  completely  that  he  had 
decided  not  only  to  return  to  town,  but  to  start 
at  once. 

He  wondered  now  whether  he  had  answered  the 
appeal  because  a  woman  was  in  a  desperate  situ 
ation  or  because  that  woman  was  Claire  Robson. 
All  through  the  dinner  hour  at  the  Tom  Forsythes 
he  had  thought  about  her,  had  speculated  vaguely 
what  mischance  or  effrontery  had  been  responsible 
for  her  ill-timed  visit  to  Flint's.  He  remembered 

8  105 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

trying  to  decide  whether  the  young  woman  was 
extraordinarily  deep  or  extraordinarily  simple  and 
frank.  He  did  not  like  to  concede  that  he  could 
be  influenced  by  anything  so  transparently  mali 
cious  as  Mrs.  Richards's  statements  regarding  the 
absence  of  Mrs.  Flint,  but  he  was  bound  to  admit 
that  they  did  nothing  to  render  the  situation  less 
innocent;  what  had  particularly  annoyed  him  was 
the  fact  that  he  should  have  given  the  matter  a 
second  thought.  To  begin  with,  it  was  none  of 
his  business  and  he  was  not  a  man  who  presumed 
to  judge  or  even  speculate  on  other  people's  indis 
cretions.  Claire  Robson  was  no  sheltered  school 
girl.  She  was  a  full-grown  woman,  in  the  thick  of 
business  life.  Such  women  were  not  taken  un 
awares.  He  had  just  dismissed  the  whole  affair 
from  his  mind  on  this  basis  when  Claire's  telephone 
message  came  to  him.  Even  now  he  marveled 
at  the  sense  of  satisfaction  that  her  appeal  had 
given.  But  he  had  found  no  savor  in  a  situation 
that  compelled  him  to  interfere  in  Flint's  program. 
Such  a  move  on  his  part  was  contrary  to  his  stand 
ards,  to  his  training  in  comradeship,  to  all  his 
acquired  philosophy.  He  had  the  well-bred  man's 
distaste  for  getting  into  a  mess.  He  abhorred 
scenes  and  conspicuous  complications. 

He  had  come  through  the  incident  with  steadily 
waning  enthusiasm  and  a  decision  to  wash  his  hands 
in  the  future  of  all  such  unprofitable  trifling.  But 
the  sudden  knowledge  that  the  young  woman  was 
in  desperate  trouble  revived  his  interest.  He  had 
no  idea  how  serious  Mrs.  Robson's  illness  was  or 
whether  Claire  had  any  hopes  for  a  new  position. 

1 06 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

But  Miss  Munch's  words  had  been  significant. 
Claire  had  been  dismissed,  and  Stillman  knew 
enough  about  present  business  stagnation  to  con 
clude  that  for  the  time,  at  least,  Claire  Robson 
faced  a  bleak  outlook.  He  realized  the  indelicacy 
of  any  definite  move  on  his  part,  but  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  might  be  well  to  talk  the  situation  over 
with  some  one — preferably  a  woman.  As  he  tossed 
his  cigar  butt  aside,  Lily  Condor  appealed  to  him 
as  just  the  person  for  the  emergency.  Therefore 
he  looked  her  up  without  further  ado. 

He  found  her  at  home,  curled  up  among  the 
cushions  of  a  davenport  that  did  service  as  a  bed 
when  the  scenes  were  shifted.  She  was  living  in  a 
tiny  apartment  consisting  of  one  room  and  a 
kitchenette  that  gave  Stillman  the  impression  of  a 
juggler's  cabinet.  Nothing  in  this  room  was  ever 
by  any  chance  what  it  seemed.  Things  that 
looked  like  doors  led  nowhere;  bits  of  stationary 
furniture  usually  yielded  to  the  slightest  pressure 
and  revealed  strange  secrets.  He  had  seen  Mrs. 
Condor  deftly  construct  a  card-table  out  of  an  easy- 
chair,  and  he  had  no  doubt  that  the  oak  table  in 
the  center  of  the  room  could  have  been  converted 
into  a  chiffonier  or  a  chassis-lounge  at  a  given  signal. 

In  repose,  it  struck  Stillman  that  Mrs.  Condor 
seemed  very  much  like  a  purring  cat.  He  had  never 
seen  her  quite  so  frankly  behind  the  scenes,  robbed 
of  both  her  physical  and  mental  make-up.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  in  middle  age  who  adapt 
themselves  to  the  tone  of  their  background  and 
while  she  contrived  to  strike  a  fairly  vivid  note, 
she  took  care  not  to  be  discordant.  She  was  clever 

107 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

enough  to  realize  that  her  talents  were  not  sen 
sational  and  that  she  could  only  hope  for  an  in 
different  success  as  a  professional.  But  in  the  r61e 
of  a  gracious  amateur  she  disarmed  criticism  and 
forced  her  way  into  circles  that  might  otherwise  have 
been  at  some  pains  to  exclude  her.  For,  if  the  truth 
were  known,  there  had  been  certain  phases  of  Mrs. 
Condor's  earlier  life  which  were  rather  vaguely,  and 
at  the  same  time  aptly,  covered  by  Mrs.  Finnegan's 
term  of  "gay."  A  perfectly  discreet  woman,  for 
instance,  would  have  made  an  effort  to  live  down 
her  flaming  hair  and  almost  immorally  dazzling 
complexion,  but  Mrs.  Condor  had  been  much  more 
ready  to  live  up  to  these  conspicuous  charms.  In 
fact,  she  had  lived  up  to  them  pretty  furiously, 
until  time  began  to  take  a  ruthless  toll  of  her  con 
trasting  points.  From  the  concert-platform  she 
still  seemed  to  discount,  almost  to  flout,  the  years, 
but  in  secret  she  yielded  unmistakably  to  their 
pressure. 

It  was  this  yielding,  pliant  attitude  that  struck 
Stillman  as  he  came  upon  her  almost  unawares  on 
that  early  December  afternoon,  a  yielding,  pliant 
attitude  which  gave  a  curious  sense  of  tenacity 
under  the  surface.  And  he  thought,  as  he  dropped 
into  the  chair  she  indicated,  that  she  was  a  wom 
an  who  gained  strength  in  these  moments  of 
relaxation. 

"Fancy  your  catching  me  like  this!"  she  said, 
"I  thought  when  the  bell  rang  that  you  were  my 
dressmaker.  ...  If  you  want  a  highball  you'll 
have  to  wait  on  yourself.  Phil  Edington  brought 
an  awfully  good  bottle  of  Scotch  last  night.  I 

108 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

declare  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  didn't  have 
a  youngster  or  two  on  my  staff.  Old  men  are  such 
bores,  anyway,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  never 
waste  time  on  any  woman  over  thirty.  Well,  I 
don't  blame  them.  We're  a  sorry,  patched-up  mess 
at  best.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  did  you  get  hold  of  Miss 
Robson?" 

"I  dropped  in,  but  she  wasn't  at  the  office," 
Stillman  replied,  tossing  his  hat  on  the  center-table. 

Mrs.  Condor  withdrew  to  the  relaxation  of  her 
innumerable  sofa  pillows  again.  "  Wasn't  at  the 
office?  How  thrilling!  Is  she  one  of  the  Sultan's 
favorites?  .  .  .  I've  heard  Sawyer  Flint  was  an 
easy  mark  if  you  know  how  to  work  him.  Miss 
Robson  didn't  strike  me  that  way,  though.  But 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  silent  women  are  always 
cleverer  than  they  appear." 

Stillman  caught  the  barest  suggestion  of  a  sneer 
in  Mrs.  Condor's  tone — the  sneer  of  a  woman  re 
linquishing  a  stubborn  hold  upon  the  gaieties. 

"Well,  I  guess  Miss  Robson  didn't  know  how  to 
work  him,  as  a  matter  of  fact, "  Stillman  said,  quietly. 
"She  lost  her  job  to-day.  I'm  a  little  bit  worried 
about  her.  ...  I  came  here  on  purpose  to  talk  the 
situation  over  with  you." 

His  directness  brought  Lily  Condor  out  of  her 
languidness  with  a  sharp  turn.  She  wriggled  up 
and  sat  erectly  on  the  edge  of  the  davenport,  one 
slippered  foot  dangling  just  above  the  other. 
"Why,  Ned  Stillman,  what  an  old  fraud  you  are! 
I  didn't  fancy  you  were  interested  in  anybody.  I 
didn't  think  that  you  .  .  .Oh,  well,  throw  me 
a  cigarette  and  let  me  hear  the  worst  in  comfort!" 

109 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  opened  his  cigarette-case  and  leaned  over 
toward  her.  She  made  her  choice.  He  struck  a 
match  and  she  put  her  hand  tightly  on  his  wrist 
as  she  bent  over  the  flame  and  slowly  drew  in  her 
breath.  Even  after  she  had  released  her  grasp 
his  flesh  still  bore  the  imprint  of  the  rings  on  her 
fingers.  For  a  moment  he  had  an  impulse  to  bow 
himself  out  of  her  presence  without  further  explana 
tion,  but  already  she  seemed  to  have  a  proprietary 
interest  in  him.  Her  smile  was  full  of  friendly 
malice. 

He  ended  by  telling  her  everything,  in  spite  of 
the  conviction  that  he  had  approached  the  wrong 
person. 

"Of  course, "  she  hazarded,  boldly,  when  he  had 
finished,  "you  mean  to  help  her  out." 

Her  presumption  annoyed  but  rather  refreshed 
him.  "I'd  like  to  do  something,  but,  hang  it  all, 
what  can  be  done?" 

''What  can  be  done?  If  that  isn't  like  a  man! 
Or  I  should  say,  a  gentleman!  .  .  .  Why  don't  you 
plunge  in  boldly  and  damn  the  consequences?  .  .  . 
It's  just  your  sort  that  sends  women  into  the  arms 
of  men  like  Flint.  You're  so  busy  keeping  an  eye 
on  the  proprieties  that  you  miss  all  the  danger 
signals." 

Her  tone  was  extraordinarily  familiar,  and,  to 
a  man  who  rather  prided  himself  upon  his  ability 
to  keep  people  at  arm's-length,  it  was  not  precisely 
agreeable.  Yet  he  knew  that  it  would  be  folly  to 
give  any  hint  of  his  irritation. 

"Well,"  he  contrived  to  laugh  back  at  her,  "so 
far  as  I  can  see,  Miss  Robson's  problems  are  quite 

no 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

too  simple.  After  all,  it's  largely  a  question  of 
money.  ...  I  can't  go  and  throw  gold  in  her  lap 
as  if  she  were  some  beggar  on  a  street  corner." 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  you  are  afraid  to 
risk  the  outraged  dignity  of  this  ward  of  yours.  I 
think  that's  a  lovely  name  for  her.  Don't  you?  .  .  . 
You're  acquiring  such  a  benevolent  old  attitude. 
The  only  thing  to  be  done,  I  fancy,  is  to  adopt  some 
transparent  ruse — some  sort  of  Daddy-Long- Leggish 
deception."  She  closed  her  eyes  thoughtfully — 
" Hiring  her  as  my  accompanist,  for  instance." 
She  rose  to  dispense  Scotch  and  soda.  Stillman 
sat  in  thoughtful  silence,  while  Mrs.  Condor  talked 
to  very  trivial  purpose.  She  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  grown  tired  of  the  subject  of  Claire  Robson. 
The  arrival  of  the  expected  dressmaker  broke  in 
upon  the  rather  one-sided  tete-a-t£te. 

"You'll  have  to  go,"  Lily  Condor  announced 
with  an  intimate  air  of  dismissal  to  Stillman.  "It 
would  never  do  to  let  a  mere  man  in  on  the  secrets 
of  the  sewing-room." 

At  the  door  he  hesitated  awkwardly  over  his 
good-by.  "I  was  wondering,"  he  said,  "whether 
you  were  serious  about  .  .  .  about  hiring  Miss 
Robson  as  your  accompanist.  You  know  I  think 
the  plan  has  possibilities." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  smiled  with  hard 
satisfaction.  "I've  been  trying  to  figure  if  you  had 
killed  your  imagination.  Think  it  over." 

She  gave  him  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  He  re 
turned  their  languid  pressure  and  departed. 

As  he  drifted  down  the  hall  he  heard  her  calling, 
half  gaily,  half  derisively,  after  him : 

in 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Don't  decide  on  anything  rash  now.  .  .  .  Sleep 
over  it!  .  .  ." 

He  thought  it  over  for  three  days  and  when  he 
called  on  Lily  Condor  again  he  found  her  divorced 
from  her  languishing  mood.  She  was  dressed  for 
dinner  down-town,  and  he  had  to  confess  she  had 
made  the  most  of  what  remained  of  her  flaming 
hair  and  dazzling  complexion. 

He  felt  that  she  guessed  the  reason  for  his  visit, 
although  she  took  care  to  let  him  force  the  issue. 

"About  Miss  Robson,"  he  said,  finally,  "I've 
concluded  to  take  you  at  your  word." 

Lily  Condor  smoothed  out  her  gloves  and  laid 
them  aside.  "Take  me  at  my  word?  You're  wel 
come  to  the  suggestion,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  wasn't  serious." 

He  was  annoyed  to  feel  that  he  was  flushing.  He 
could  not  fathom  her,  but  he  had  a  conviction  that 
she  had  been  serious  and  that  this  attitude  was  a 
mere  pose.  "Nevertheless,  I  think  it  can  be  man 
aged,"  he  insisted.  "And  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

She  listened  to  his  plan.  "What  you  will  call 
a  Daddy- Long- Leggish  pretense,"  he  explained  to 
her  with  an  attempt  at  facetiousness.  "You  to  do 
the  hiring  and  .  .  .  and  yours  truly  to  provide 
the  wherewithal.  Until  things  look  up  a  bit.  Of 
course  then  .  .  .  why,  naturally,  when  things  look 
up  a  bit  for  her  ..." 

But  Lily  remained  lukewarm.  She  wasn't  quite 
sure  that  it  would  be  .  .  .  oh,  well,  he  knew  what 
she  meant!  It  seemed  too  absurd  to  think  that 
he  had  given  an  ear  to  anything  so  extravagant. 

112 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

She  would  like  to  be  of  service  to  Miss  Robson,  of 
course,  but,  after  all,  she  felt  that  it  was  taking  an 
unfair  advantage  of  the  girl. 

"If  she's  everything  you  say  she  is,  she'd  resent 
it  all  tremendously,"  she  put  forth  as  a  final 
objection. 

"But  she  isn't  to  know!  That's  the  point  of  the 
whole  thing,"  he  explained,  with  absurd  simplicity. 

"Oh,  my  dear  man,  she  isn't  to  know,  but  she 
will,  ultimately.  You  don't  suppose  the  secret  of 
a  woman's  meal-ticket  is  hidden  very  long,  do  you  ? 
And,  besides,  you  couldn't  offer  her  enough  to  live 
on.  That  would  be  absurd  on  the  very  face  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,  I  could  offer  her  enough  to  help  out 
a  bit,  anyway,  and  half  a  loaf  you  know  ..." 

He  broke  off,  amazed  at  the  determination  her 
opposition  had  crystallized.  She  looked  at  him 
sharply  and  rose. 

"I  must  be  running  along,"  she  commented  as 
she  drew  on  her  gloves.  "I  tell  you,  111  go  call 
on  Miss  Robson — some  day  this  week.  A  woman 
can  always  get  a  better  side-light  on  a  situation 
like  this.  There  are  so  many  angles  to  be  con 
sidered.  She  must  have  relatives.  You  wouldn't 
want  to  make  a  false  move,  would  you,  now?" 

He  was  too  grateful  to  be  suspicious  at  this 
sudden  compromise  with  her  convictions. 

"You're  tremendously  good,"  he  stammered. 
'  *  It  will  be  a  favor.  And  any  time  that  I  can  ..." 

"You  can  be  of  service  to  me  right  now,"  she 
interrupted,  gaily.  "Order  me  a  taxi  .  .  .  that's  a 
good  boy !  I  always  do  so  like  to  pull  up  at  a  place 
in  style." 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Stillman  paid  Lily  Condor  a  third  visit  that  week 
— this  time  in  answer  to  the  lady's  telephone  mes 
sage.  She  had  been  to  see  Claire  Robson  and  her 
report  was  anything  but  rosy. 

"Her  mother's  perfectly  helpless  and  will  be  for 
the  rest  of  her  life,"  Lily  volunteered  almost  cheer 
fully.  "And,  frankly,  I  don't  see  what  is  going  to 
become  of  them.  It  seems  that  Mrs.  Robson  is 
a  sister  of  Mrs.  Tom  Wynne  and  that  dreadful 
Ffinch-Brown  woman.  They  both  have  about  as 
much  heart  as  a  cast-iron  stove.  Miss  Robson  didn't 
say  so  in  words,  but  I  gathered  that  she  had  called 
both  of  them  off  the  relief  job.  I  almost  cheered 
when  I  realized  that  fact.  I  threw  out  a  hint  about 
there  being  a  possibility  of  my  needing  an  accom 
panist.  I  said  Miss  Menzies  was  ill  and  perhaps 
.  .  .  and  I  intimated  that  there  was  something 
more  than  glory  in  it." 

"And  what  did  Miss  Robson  say  to  that?" 

1 1  Oh,  she  was  more  self-contained  than  one  would 
imagine  under  the  circumstances.  She  said  she 
would  like  to  think  it  over.  She  put  it  that  way 
on  the  score  of  leaving  her  mother  alone  nights. 
But,  believe  me,  that  young  lady  is  more  calcu 
lating  than  she  seems.  Of  course  I  didn't  mention 
terms  or  anything  like  that.  I  left  a  good  loophole 
in  case  you  had  changed  your  mind." 

For  the  moment  Stillman  was  almost  persuaded 
to  tell  Lily  Condor  that  he  had  changed  his  mind. 
Not  that  he  had  lost  interest  in  Claire,  but  already 
he  had  another  plan  and  there  was  something  dis 
agreeably  presumptuous  in  Mrs.  Condor's  tone.  He 
never  remembered  having  taken  anybody  into  his 

114 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

confidence  regarding  a  personal  matter.  The 
trouble  was  that  he  had  begun  the  whole  affair 
under  the  misapprehension  that  it  was  a  most  im 
personal  thing.  He  still  tried  to  look  at  it  from 
that  angle,  but  Lily  Condor's  manner  seemed  bent 
on  forcing  home  the  rather  disturbing  conviction 
that  he  had  a  vital  interest  in  the  issue.  She  had 
cut  in  upon  his  reserve  and  he  would  never  quite  be 
able  to  recover  the  lost  ground.  He  felt  that  she 
sensed  his  revulsion,  for  almost  at  once  she  adroitly 
changed  the  subject  and  it  did  not  come  to  life 
again  during  the  remainder  of  his  call. 

But  when  he  was  leaving  she  thrust  an  idle  finger 
into  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  said: 

"I  think  it's  awfully  good  of  you,  Ned,  to  be 
human  enough  to  want  to  do  something  for  others. 
I  watched  you  as  a  young  man,  and  when  you 
married  ..."  His  startled  look  must  have  halted 
her,  for  she  released  her  hold  upon  him  and  finished 
with  a  shrug. 

He  said  good-by  hastily  and  escaped.  But  he 
wondered,  as  he  found  his  way  out  into  the  street, 
how  long  it  would  be  before  Mrs.  Condor  would 
acquire  sufficient  boldness  to  discuss  with  him 
what  and  whom  she  chose. 


CHAPTER  X 

/CHRISTMAS  DAY  came  and  went  with  a  host 
V**  of  bitter-sweet  memories  for  Claire  Robson. 
Not  that  she  could  look  back  on  any  holiday  season 
with  unalloyed  happiness,  but  time  had  drawn  the 
sting  from  the  misfortune  of  the  old  days.  Through 
the  mist  of  the  years  outlines  softened,  and 
she  was  more  prone  to  measure  the  results  by  the 
slight  harvest  that  their  efforts  had  brought.  For 
instance,  they  had  never  been  too  poor  to  deny 
themselves  the  luxury  of  a  tree.  And  a  tree  to 
Mrs.  Robson  meant  none  of  the  scant,  indifferent 
affairs  that  most  of  the  neighbors  found  acceptable 
strung  with  a  few  strands  of  dingy  popcorn  and 
pasteboard  ornaments.  No,  the  Robson  tree  was 
always  an  opulent  work  of  art,  freighted  with  burst 
ing  cornucopias  and  heavy  glass  balls  and  yards 
of  quivering  tinsel.  The  money  for  all  this  dazzling 
beauty  usually  came  a  fortnight  or  so  before  the 
eventful  day  in  the  shape  of  a  ten-dollar  bill  tucked 
away  in  the  folds  of  Gertrude  Sinclair's  annual 
letter  to  Mrs.  Robson.  As  Claire  had  grown  older 
she  had  grown  also  impatient  of  the  memory  of 
her  mother  squandering  what  should  have  gone  for 
thick  shoes  and  warm  plaid  dresses  upon  the  ephem 
eral  joys  of  a  Christmas  tree.  But  now  she  sud- 

116 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

denly  understood,  and  she  felt  glad  for  a  mother 
courageous  enough  to  lay  hold  upon  the  beautiful 
symbols  of  life  at  the  expense  of  all  that  was  hide 
ously  practical.  Shoes  wore  out  and  plaid  dresses 
finally  found  their  way  to  the  rag-bag,  but  the 
glories  of  the  spirit  burned  forever  in  the  splendor 
of  all  this  truant  magnificence,  and  the  years 
stretched  back  in  a  glittering  procession  of  light- 
ladened  fir-trees. 

Then  some  time  between  Christmas  and  New- 
Year  came  the  Christmas  pantomime  at  the  Tivoli, 
with  its  bewildering  array  of  scantily  clad  fairies 
and  dashing  Amazons  and  languishing  princes  in 
pale-blue  tights;  to  say  nothing  of  the  Queen 
Charlottes  consumed  between  acts  through  faintly 
yellow  straws.  How  Claire  would  mark  off  each 
day  on  the  calendar  which  brought  her  nearer  to 
this  triumph !  And  what  a  hurry  and  bustle  always 
ensued  to  get  dinner  over  and  be  fully  dressed  and 
down  to  the  box-office  before  even  the  doors  were 
opened,  so  that  they  could  get  first  choice  of  the 
unreserved  seats  which  sold  at  twenty-five  cents. 
Then  there  would  ensue  the  long,  tedious  wait  in 
the  dimly  lighted  cavern  of  the  playhouse,  smelling 
with  a  curious  fascination  of  stale  cigars  and  staler 
beer,  and  the  thrill  that  the  appearance  of  the  orches 
tra  produced,  followed  by  the  arrival  of  all  the 
important  personages  fortunate  enough  to  afford 
fifty-cent  seats,  which  gave  them  the  security  to 
put  off  their  appearance  until  the  curtain  was  almost 
ready  to  rise.  And  when  the  curtain  really  did 
rise  upon  the  inevitable  spectacle  of  villagers  danc 
ing  upon  the  village  green!  And  Mrs.  Robson 

117 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

carefully  picked  out  in  the  chorus  the  stout  sister 
of  a  former  servant  who  had  worked  for  her  mother ! 
And  the  wicked  old  witch  swept  from  the  wings  on 
the  traditional  broomstick!  From  that  moment 
until  the  final  transformation  scene,  when  scintil 
lating  sea-shells  yielded  up  one  by  one  their  dazzling 
burdens  of  female  loveliness  and  a  rather  Hebraic 
Cupid  descended  from  an  invisible  wire  to  wish 
everybody  a  happy  New- Year  in  words  appropri 
ately  rhymed,  there  was  no  halt  to  the  wonders  dis 
closed.  With  what  sharp  and  exquisite  reluctance 
did  Claire  remain  glued  to  her  seat,  refusing  to 
believe  that  it  was  all  over !  Even  at  this  late  date 
Claire  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to  revive  the  de 
lights  of  these  rather  covert  excursions  into  the 
realm  of  fancy — covert,  because  a  Tivoli  panto 
mime  had  not  precisely  the  sanction  of  such  a  re 
spectable  organization  as  the  Second  Presbyterian 
Church.  Mrs.  Robson,  while  not  definitely  en 
couraging  Claire  to  wilful  dishonesty,  always 
managed  to  warn  her  daughter  by  saying: 

"I  wouldn't  tell  any  one  about  going  to  the 
Tivoli,  Claire,  if  I  were  you  .  .  .  unless,  of  course, 
they  should  ask  about  it." 

Claire,  in  mortal  terror  lest  any  indiscretion  on  her 
part  would  put  a  stop  to  this  annual  lapse  into  such 
delightful  immoralities,  held  her  peace  in  spite  of 
her  desire  to  spread  abroad  the  beauties  which 
she  had  beheld.  She  had  a  feeling  that  all  the 
participants  in  the  pantomime  must  of  necessity 
be  rather  wicked  and  abandoned  creatures,  and 
half  the  pleasure  she  had  felt  in  viewing  them  arose 
from  a  secret  admiration  at  the  courage  which 

zxft 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

permitted  human  beings  to  be  so  perfectly  and 
desperately  sinful.  Although  she  was  almost  per 
suaded  that  perhaps  it  did  not  take  quite  such 
bravado  to  be  wicked  in  blue-spangled  gauze  and 
satin  slippers  as  it  did  to  lapse  from  the  straight 
and  narrow  path  in  a  gingham  dress  and  resoled 
boots. 

The  only  thrill  that  the  present  Christmas  Day 
produced  came  in  the  shape  of  a  pot  of  flaming 
poinsettias  bearing  the  card  of  Ned  Stillman. 
These  were  the  first  flowers  that  Claire  ever  re 
membered  having  received.  It  pleased  her  also 
to  realize  that  Stillman  had  been  delicate  to  the 
point  of  this  thoroughly  unpractical  gift,  especially 
as  he  had  every  reason  to  assume  that  something 
more  substantial  would  have  been  acceptable.  She 
was  confident  that  by  this  time  he  had  heard  through 
Mrs.  Condor  of  her  mother's  illness  and  her  loss 
of  position.  Claire  was  still  puzzled  at  Mrs. 
Condor's  visit.  For  all  that  lady's  skill  at  subter 
fuge,  there  were  implied  evasions  in  her  manner 
which  Claire  sensed  instinctively.  And  then  Claire 
was  not  yet  inured  to  the  novelty  of  being  in  de 
mand.  To  have  been  forced  by  circumstance  upon 
Mrs.  Condor  as  an  accompanist  was  one  thing;  to 
be  desired  by  her  in  a  moment  of  cold  calculation 
was  quite  another;  and  there  had  been  more  un 
certainty  than  caution  in  Claire's  plea  for  time 
in  which  to  consider  the  offer.  But  as  the  days 
flew  by  it  became  more  and  more  apparent  to 
Claire  that  she  was  in  no  position  to  indulge  in  idle 
speculation.  She  had  long  since  given  up  the 
hope  of  fulfilling  the  demands  of  a  regular  office 

119 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

position,  even  if  one  had  been  open  to  her.  Mrs. 
Finnegan's  enthusiasm  to  be  neighborly  and  helpful 
was  more  a  matter  of  theory  than  practice,  and  it 
did  not  take  Claire  many  days  to  decide  that  she 
had  no  right  to  impose  upon  a  good  nature  which 
was  made  up  largely  of  ignorance  of  a  sick-room's 
demands.  Claire's  final  check  from  Flint  was 
dwindling  with  alarming  rapidity;  indeed,  she  was 
facing  the  first  of  the  year  with  the  realization  that 
there  would  be  barely  enough  to  pay  the  next 
month's  rent,  let  alone  to  settle  the  current  bills. 
She  had  no  idea  what  Mrs.  Condor  intended  paying, 
but  she  fancied  that  it  must  be  little  enough. 
Surely  Mrs.  Condor  did  not  receive  any  great  sum 
for  her  singing  and  there  must  be  any  number  of 
gratuitous  performances.  She  decided  quite  sud 
denly,  the  day  after  Christmas,  to  take  Mrs. 
Condor  at  her  word,  and  she  was  a  bit  disturbed 
at  both  the  lady's  reply  and  the  manner  of  it. 

"Oh,"  Mrs.  Condor  had  drawled  rather  dis 
agreeably,  "I  thought  you'd  given  up  the  idea. 
I  spoke  to  somebody  else  only  this  morning.  But, 
of  course,  I'm  not  certain  about  how  it  will  turn 
out.  I'll  keep  you  in  mind  and  if  the  other  falls 
through  ...  By  the  way,  how  is  your  mother? 
I  keep  asking  Ned  Stillman  every  day  what  the 
news  is,  but  he  never  knows  anything.  All  men 
are  alike  .  .  .  unless  they've  got  some  special 
interest.  Sometimes  I  marvel  that  he  looks  me 
up  so  regularly,  but  then  I've  known  him  ever  since 
.  .  .  But  there,  I'll  be  telling  more  than  I  should! 
Do  come  and  see  me.  I'm  always  in  in  the  morning. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  can  imagine  you  do  have  a  lot  to  do. 

120 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

I'm  so  sorry  you  didn't  call  up  sooner.  But  one 
never  can  tell.  Good-by.  ...  I  hope  you'll  have 
a  happy  New  Year." 

Claire  hung  up  the  receiver.  Well,  she  had  lost 
an  opportunity  to  turn  an  easy  dollar  or  two  and 
she  had  no  one  to  thank  but  herself.  Why  had  she 
delayed  in  accepting  Mrs.  Condor's  offer? 

Fortunately  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Nellie 
Whitehead  cut  short  any  further  repinings.  Claire 
was  frankly  glad  to  see  her  and  at  once  she  thought, 
"She  has  come  to  show  me  her  new  coat." 

But  Nellie  Whitehead  was  incased  in  a  wrap 
that  showed  every  evidence  of  a  good  six  months' 
wear. 

"My  new  coat?"  the  lady  echoed,  in  answer  to 
Claire's  question.  "There  ain't  no  such  animal. 
Somebody  else  copped  it.  I  didn't  shove  it  back 
far  enough  the  last  time  I  took  a  look  at  it,  I  guess. 
Oh,  well,  I  should  worry!  I  can  get  along  very 
well  without  it.  .  .  ." 

When  Nellie  Whitehead  rose  to  leave,  dusk  had 
fallen  and  Claire  was  fumbling  for  matches  to  light 
the  hall  gas,  when  she  felt  her  friend's  hand  close 
over  hers.  There  followed  the  cold  pressure  of 
several  coins  against  Claire's  palm  and  the  voice 
of  her  visitor  sounding  a  bit  tremulous  in  the  dusk. 

"You'll  need  some  extra  money,  Robson,  or  I 
miss  my  guess." 

Claire  fell  back  with  a  gesture  of  protest.  *  *  Why, 
Nellie  Whitehead,  how  could  you?  It's  your  coat 
money,  too!  Well,  I  never!" 

And  with  that  they  both  burst  into  tears.  .  .  . 
When  Claire  recovered  herself  she  found  that  Nellie 

9  121 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Whitehead  had  escaped.  She  lit  the  gas  and  opened 
her  palm.  Four  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  glistened 
in  the  light. 

Next  morning  Claire  received  a  telephone  mes 
sage  from  Mrs.  Condor.  The  position  of  accom 
panist  was  hers  at  forty  dollars  a  month  if  she 
desired  it. 

"It  won't  be  hard,"  Mrs.  Condor  had  finished, 
reassuringly.  "Some  weeks  I've  something  on 
nearly  every  night.  And  then  again  there  won't 
be  anything  doing  for  days.  .  .  .  How  can  I  afford 
to  pay  so  much?  Well,  my  dear,  that  is  a  secret. 
But  don't  worry,  you'll  earn  it.  .  .  ." 

And  toward  the  close  of  the  week  there  came 
another  surprise  for  Claire  in  the  shape  of  a  letter 
from  Stillman,  which  ran: 

MY  DEAR  Miss  ROBSON. — I  am  going  to  take  a  little  flier 
at  the  bean  market. 

That  was  my  father's  business  and  I  know  a  few  things  about 
it — at  least  to  the  extent  of  recognizing  the  commodity  when 
the  sack  is  opened.  Do  you  fancy  you  could  arrange  to  give 
me  a  few  hours  a  week  at  the  typewriter?  If  so,  we  can  get 
together  and  arrange  terms. 

Cordially, 

EDWARD  STILLMAN. 

"At  last,"  flashed  through  Claire's  mind,  "he's 
going  in  for  something  worth  while." 

This  time  she  decided  promptly.  Over  the  tele 
phone  she  made  an  appointment  with  Stillman, 
in  his  apartments,  for  beginning  work  on  the  second 
Wednesday  in  January. 

122 


CHAPTER  XI 

OHORTLY  after  the  first  of  the  year  Claire 
^  received  her  initial  summons  from  Lily  Condor 
—they  were  to  appear  at  a  concert  in  the  Colonial 
Ballroom  of  the  St.  Francis  for  the  Belgian  relief. 
Mrs.  Condor  had  intimated  that  the  affair  was  to 
be  smart,  and  so  it  proved.  It  was  set  at  a  very 
late  and  very  fashionable  hour,  and  all  through  the 
program  groups  of  torpid,  though  rather  audible, 
diners  kept  drifting  in.  Claire  was  not  slow  to 
discover  that  Lily  Condor  was  first  on  the  bill,  and 
she  remembered  reading  somewhere  in  a  newspaper 
that  among  professionals  the  first  and  last  place 
were  always  loathsome  positions.  Judging  from 
the  noise  and  confusion  that  accompanied  their 
efforts,  Claire  could  well  understand  why  this  was 
so,  and  she  expected  to  find  Lily  Condor  resentful. 
But  to  her  surprise  Mrs.  Condor  merely  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  said: 

4 'What  difference  does  it  make?  They  don't 
come  to  listen,  anyway.  Besides,  I  always  open  the 
bill.  I  like  to  get  it  over  quickly." 

But  Claire  had  reason  to  suspect,  as  she  followed 
the  remainder  of  a  very  excellent  program,  that 
the  choice  of  position  did  not  rest  with  Mrs.  Condor. 
Claire  began  to  wonder  how  much  money  Mrs. 

123 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Condor  received  for  an  effort  like  this.  And  she 
became  more  puzzled  as  she  gathered  from  the 
conversation  of  the  other  artists  about  her  that  the 
talent  had  been  furnished  gratuitously. 

"I  understand,"  she  heard  a  woman  in  front  of 
her  whisper  to  her  companion,  "that  Devincenzi, 
the  'cellist,  is  the  only  one  in  the  crowd  who  is  get 
ting  a  red  cent.  But  he  has  a  rule,  you  know — or  is 
it  a  contract  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate, 
they  say  that  the  Ffinch-Browns  donated  his  fee 
.  .  .  The  Ffinch-Browns?  Don't  you  know  them? 
.  .  .  See,  there  they  are  .  .  .  over  there  by  the 
Tom  Forsythes.  She  has  on  turquoise  pendant 
earrings.  .  .  .  Oh,  they 're  ever  so  charitable !  But 
they  do  say  that  she  is  something  of  a  .  .  ." 

Claire  lost  the  remainder  of  this  stage  whisper 
in  a  rather  tremulous  anxiety  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  aunt  before  she  moved.  Claire  had  to  ac 
knowledge  that  at  a  distance  her  aunt  gave  a  won 
derful  illusion  of  arrested  youth  as  she  stood  with 
one  hand  grasping  the  collar  of  her  gorgeous  man 
darin  coat.  But  Claire  was  more  interested  in  the 
turquoise  pendants  than  in  her  aunt.  She  had 
never  seen  the  jewels  before,  but  she  had  heard 
about  them  almost  from  the  time  she  was  able  to 
lisp. 

"They're  mine,"  Mrs.  Robson  had  repeated  to 
Claire  again  and  again.  "My  father  bought  them 
for  me  when  I  was  sixteen  years  old.  I  remember 
the  day  distinctly,  and  how  my  mother  said: 
'Don't  you  think,  John,  that  Emily  is  a  little  young 
for  anything  like  this?  I'll  keep  them  for  her 
until  she  is  twenty.'  I  nearly  cried  myself  sick, 

124 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

but  of  course  mother  was  right,  then.  ...  But  like 
everything  else,  I  never  got  my  hands  on  them  again. 
And  what  is  more,  Julia  Carrol  Ffinch-Brown  knows 
that  they  are  mine  as  well  as  anybody,  because  she 
stood  right  alongside  of  me  when  I  handed  them 
over  to  mother.  Not  that  I  care.  .  .  .  It's  the 
principle  of  the  thing!" 

Claire  felt  disappointed  in  the  pendants.  They 
seemed  so  insignificant — to  fall  very  far  short  of 
her  mother's  passionate  description  of  them,  and 
she  began  to  wonder  which  was  the  more  pathetic, 
Mrs.  Robson's  exaggerated  notion  of  their  worth 
or  the  pettiness  that  gave  Aunt  Julia  the  tenacity 
to  hold  fast  to  such  trivial  baubles. 

Ned  Stillman  was  in  the  audience,  also.  Claire 
saw  him  sitting  off  at  the  side.  Indeed,  she  spotted 
him  on  the  very  moment  of  her  entrance  upon  the 
stage.  She  had  been  nervous  until  his  friendly 
smile  warmed  her  into  easy  confidence;  and  though, 
while  she  played,  her  back  had  been  toward  him, 
she  felt  the  glow  of  his  sympathy.  As  Lily  Condor 
and  she  swept  back  upon  the  stage  for  their  rather 
perfunctory  applause,  and  still  more  perfunctory 
bouquets  provided  by  the  committee,  Claire  could 
see  him  gently  tapping  his  hands  in  her  direction, 
and  she  was  surprised  when  the  usher  handed  her 
a  bouquet  of  dazzling  orchids. 

"They  must  be  for  you,"  Claire  said,  innocently 
enough,  to  Mrs.  Condor.  "I  don't  find  any  name 
on  them." 

"That  shows  that  you've  got  a  discreet  admirer, 
at  any  rate,"  Lily  Condor  returned  with  that  banter 
ing  sneer  which  Claire  was  just  beginning  to  notice. 

125 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

And  the  thought  struck  her  at  once  that  Stillman 
had  sent  the  flowers.  She  was  pleased,  but  also 
a  little  annoyed  to  think  he  had  so  deliberately 
ignored  Mrs.  Condor. 

The  Flints  were  there,  too;  Flint  looked  un 
comfortable  and  warm  in  his  scant  full-dress  suit 
and  his  wife  frankly  ridiculous  in  a  low-cut  gown 
that  exhibited  every  angle  of  a  hopelessly  scrawny 
neck.  Claire  did  not  see  them  until  she  was  leaving 
the  stage,  and  she  smiled  as  she  saw  Flint  lean  over 
and  pick  up  the  opera-glasses  from  his  wife's  lap. 
But  this  was  not  all.  In  a  far  corner  sat  Miss 
Munch  and  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Richards,  their  ferret 
eyes  darting  busily  about  and  their  tongues  click 
ing  even  more  rapidly.  Doubtless  Flint  had  in 
vested  in  a  number  of  tickets  at  the  office  for  busi 
ness  reasons  and  passed  them  around  for  any  of  the 
office  force  who  felt  a  desire  to  see  society  at  close 
range. 

Claire  had  not  meant  to  stay  beyond  one  or  two 
numbers  following  her  own  appearance,  but  she 
kept  yielding  to  Mrs.  Condor's  insistent  suggestions 
that  she  "stay  for  just  one  more,"  until  she  dis 
covered,  to  her  dismay,  that  it  was  past  midnight. 
The  last  artists  were  taking  their  places  upon  the 
stage.  Claire  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable  and 
sat  out  the  remainder  of  the  performance.  She 
was  making  a  quick  exit  into  the  dressing-room 
when  she  came  face  to  face  with  her  aunt.  Mrs. 
Ffmch-Brown  betrayed  her  confusion  by  the  merest 
lift  of  the  eyebrows,  and  she  stepped  back  as  if  to 
get  a  clearer  view  of  her  niece,  as  she  said  with  an 
air  of  polite  surprise: 

126 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"You— here?" 

Claire  carried  her  head  confidently.  "I  was  on 
the  program,"  she  returned,  consciously  eying  the 
turquoise  pendants. 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  rested  a  closed  fan  against 
her  left  ear  as  if  to  screen  at  least  one  of  the  earrings 
from  Claire's  frank  stare.  "Oh,  how  interesting! 
I  must  have  missed  you — I  came  in  late.  It's 
rather  odd.  I  thought  I  knew  everybody  on  the 
program.  ...  I  helped  arrange  it.'* 

"Well,"  Claire  smiled,  "I  wasn't  what  you  would 
call  one  of  the  head-liners.  I  played  Mrs.  Condor's 
accompaniments. ' ' 

"That  accounts  for  it  ...  my  not  knowing,  I 
mean.  I  dare  say  your  mother  is  better,  otherwise 
you  wouldn't  be  here," 

Claire  met  her  aunt's  thrust  calmly.  "No, 
mother  is  worse,  if  anything.  As  a  matter  of  fact,. 
I'm  here  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  realizing  suddenly  that 
she  had  left  her  orchids  behind.  She  turned  to 
discover  Stillman  making  his  leisurely  way  toward 
her.  He  had  the  orchids  in  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Miss  Robson,"  he  said,  gently,  "Mrs. 
Condor  came  very  near  appropriating  your  flowers." 

She  could  feel  the  color  rising  to  her  forehead, 
"I  see  you  came  to  my  rescue  again,"  she  said, 
simply,  taking  them  from  him.  ' '  I  think  you  know 
Mr.  Stillman,  Aunt  Julia." 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  forced  a  too-sweet  smile  as 
she  gave  Stillman  a  nod  of  recognition.  "Fancy 
any  girl  forgetting  so  much  gorgeousness!"  she  ex 
claimed  with  an  attempt  at  lightness,  but  Claire 

127 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

caught  the  covert  rancor  in  her  voice,  and  as  her 
aunt  made  a  movement  of  escape  she  "put  out  a 
restraining  hand  and  said: 

"I  wanted  you  to  know,  Aunt  Julia,  that  I'm  here 
merely  as  a  matter  of  business.  Mrs.  Condor  has 
hired  me  to  play  her  accompaniments." 

Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  shook  off  Claire  impatiently. 
' '  Hired  you ! ' '  she  sneered.  *  *  How  extraordinary ! ' ' 

And  with  that  she  swept  past,  giving  Stillman  a 
glance  of  farewell. 

Claire  turned  to  Stillman.  "What  must  you 
think  of  me?  Leaving  my  flowers  behind.  Con 
fess — it  was  you  who  sent  them.  ...  I  was  in  such 
a  rush  to  get  away,  though.  I  shouldn't  have  stayed 
so  long.  My  mother  is  alone.  ...  Of  course  there 
are  neighbors  just  below  and  they  will  look  in  on 
her,  but  just  the  same  ..." 

His  smile  reassured  her.  "Are  you  forgetting 
about  to-morrow?"  he  asked.  "Remember  we  are 
to  begin  business  promptly  at  two  o'clock .  I  hired 
a  typewriting-machine  yesterday.  I'm  really 
thrilled  at  the  idea  of — of  going  into  business." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  as  she  gave  him  her 
hand:  "My  dear  Mr.  Stillman,"  she  said,  quite 
frankly,  "you  are  very  kind." 

He  answered  by  pressing  her  hand  warmly  and 
she  covered  her  face  with  the  purple  orchids.  They 
were  interrupted  by  Lily  Condor  sweeping  rather 
arrogantly  toward  them. 

"Haven't  you  gone  yet?"  she  asked  Claire.  "I 
thought  you  were  in  a  hurry!  I  hope  you've  per 
suaded  Ned  to  get  us  a  taxi.  I  hate  street-cars 
at  this  hour."  And  in  answer  to  Claire's  embar- 

128 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

rassed  protest  that  she  had  never  given  such  a  thing 
a  thought,  Mrs.  Condor  finished:  ''Well,  I've  given 
it  a  thought,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  Come,  Ned, 
is  it  a  go?" 

Claire  fancied  that  a  flicker  of  annoyance  passed 
over  Stillman's  face  as  he  answered,  with  a  dry 
laugh : 

"  You  might  at  least  have  given  me  time  to  prove 
my  gallantry." 

1  'I'm  not  taking  any  chances,"  was  the  prompt 
reply. 

Claire  turned  away.  What  had  contrived  to 
give  Mrs.  Condor  this  disagreeable  air  of  assurance 
toward  Ned  Stillman,  she  found  herself  wondering. 
It  had  not  been  apparent  at  the  Condor-Stillman 
musicale.  .  .  . 

She  arrived  home  dismayed  to  find  the  front 
room  illuminated,  but  the  rattle  of  the  departing 
taxi  brought  Mrs.  Finnegan  to  the  top  of  the  stairs 
with  a  laughing  apology. 

"I  just  looked  in  to  see  how  your  mother  was, 
Miss  Claire,  and  I  found  a  book  on  the  front-room 
table" — Mrs.  Finnegan  held  up  Ouida's  Moths — 
"and  I  got  so  interested  in  it  that  I  just  naturally 
forgot  to  go  home.  Finnegan's  out,  anyway.  I 
was  telling  him  about  your  good  fortune.  And  all 
he  said  was:  'Well,  it  beats  me  how  an  old  crow 
like  Mrs.  Condor  gets  paid  for  singing.  I  remember 
five  years  ago,  when  she  wasn't  so  uppish,  we  had 
her  for  a  benefit  performance  of  the  Native  Sons, 
and  she  didn't  get  paid  then.  Her  singing  may  be 
over  my  head.  Anyway,  it  didn't  get  to  my  ears/ 
But  Finnegan  is  always  like  that.  He  just  likes 

129 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

to  contradict.  I  got  back  at  him.  I  said,  'Well, 
if  she  can  afford  to  pay  Miss  Claire  forty  a  month 
for  playing  the  piano,  she  must  get  a  good  piece  of 
money  every  time  she  opens  her  mouth/  .  .  .  Mercy, 
look  at  the  orchids!  Well,  you  must  have  had  a 
swell  time.  I'll  bet  you  wouldn't  like  to  tell  who 
sent  them.  .  .  .  There  wasn't  any  card?  That's 
not  saying  you  don't  know,  Miss  Claire.  ...  I 
hope  you  won't  think  I'm  a  meddler,  but  I'm  an 
older  woman  and  .  .  .  Well,  just  you  keep  a  sharp 
eye  on  the  feller  that  sends  you  orchids,  Miss 
Claire." 

She  went  down-stairs  without  further  ado.  Claire 
put  the  orchids  in  water  and  set  them  on  a  sill  near 
an  open  window.  She  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
resentful  of  Mrs.  Finnegan's  warnings.  She  was 
too  confident  to  be  anything  but  faintly  amused 
at  her  neighbor's  middle-class  anxiety.  But  Fin 
negan's  skepticism  concerning  Mrs.  Condor  annoyed 
her  and  she  remembered  the  disagreeable  words  of 
her  aunt: 

* '  Hired  you  ?    How  extraordinary ! ' ' 

' ' Two  o'clock  sharp!' '  The  memory  of  Stillman's 
air  of  delicate  banter  as  he  emphasized  the  hour 
for  beginning  his  business  venture  struck  Claire 
ironically  the  more  she  pondered  his  words.  She 
had  a  feeling  that  there  was  something  farcical  in 
the  prospect,  and  yet  there  seemed  nothing  to  do 
but  to  go  through  with  the  preliminaries.  She 
presented  herself,  therefore,  at  the  appointed  time 
at  the  Stanford  Court  apartments. 

She  found  StiL^ian  quite  alone,  his  hands  blue- 
130 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

black  with  the  smudge  from  a  refractory  type 
writer  ribbon  which  he  was  vainly  endeavoring 
to  adjust.  It  took  some  time  for  him  to  get  his 
hands  clean  again,  and  Claire  sharpened  her  pen 
cils  while  she  waited.  But  there  really  proved 
to  be  nothing  to  do. 

"I'm  all  up  in  the  air  over  this  bean  business," 
Stillman  confessed,  nonchalantly.  "The  govern 
ment,  you  know  .  .  .  they're  taking  over  all  that 
sort  of  thing  .  .  .  regulating  food  and  prices.  Of 
course,  in  that  case  ..." 

Claire  felt  an  enormous  and  illogical  relief. 
"Then  you  really  won't  need  me,"  she  ventured. 

"Oh,  quite  the  contrary.  ...  I  have  a  certain 
amount  of  business,  of  a  sort.  And  I'm  tired  of 
dropping  checks  along  the  trail  of  public  stenog 
raphers.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  talk  terms.  We  haven't 
fixed  on  any  salary,  yet." 

Claire  felt  a  rising  impatience.  His  subterfuge 
seemed  too  childish  and  obvious.  "That  will 
depend  on  how  much  of  my  time  you  expect, 
Mr.  Stillman." 

"Well,  three  times  a  week,  anyway  ...  to  start 
with.  Say  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays 
from  two  to  five.  ...  I  was  thinking  that  something 
in  the  neighborhood  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week  would 
be  fair." 

He  turned  a  very  frank  gaze  in  her  direction  and 
she  quizzically  returned  his  glance. 

"That's  rather  ridiculous,  don't  you  think?" 
she  said,  trying  to  disguise  her  furtive  annoyance. 
"You  can  hire  a  substitute  through  any  type 
writing  agency  on  the  basis  of  three  dollars  a  day  " 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Yes,  and  I  can  buy  two  cigars  for  a  nickel,  but 
I  shouldn't  want  to  smoke  them." 

She  clicked  the  keys  of  her  machine  idly.  "That 
is  hardly  a  fair  comparison.  You  can  get  any  num 
ber  of  competent  girls  for  three  dollars." 

He  rested  his  chin  on  his  upturned  palm.  "But, 
my  dear  Miss  Robson,  I  happen  to  want  you" 

She  thought  of  any  number  of  cheap,  obvious 
retorts  that  might  have  been  flung  back  at  his 
straightforward  admission,  but  instead  she  said, 
with  equal  frankness: 

"That's  just  what  I  don't  understand." 

He  threw  her  a  puzzled  look  and  the  usual  placid 
light  in  his  eyes  quickened  to  resentful  impatience. 

"Is  that  a  necessary  part  of  the  contract,  Miss 
Robson?" 

She  caught  her  breath.  His  tone  of  annoyance 
was  sharp  and  unexpected.  There  was  a  suggestion 
of  Flint's  masculine  arrogance  in  his  voice.  She 
felt  how  absurd  was  her  cross-examination  of  him, 
of  how  absurd,  under  the  circumstances,  would 
have  been  her  cross-examination  of  anybody  ready 
and  willing  to  give  her  work  to  do  and  an  ample 
wage  in  the  bargain,  and  yet,  for  all  the  force  of  his 
reply,  she  knew  it  to  be  a  well-bred  if  not  a  deliber 
ate  evasion. 

"You  mean  it  is  none  of  my  business,  don't  you?" 
she  contrived  to  laugh  back  at  him. 

His  reply  was  a  further  surprise.  "Yes,  pre 
cisely,"  he  said,  with  an  ominous  thinning  of  the 
lips. 

She  rose  instinctively  to  meet  this  thrust  and 
she  was  conscious  that  even  Flint  had  never  man- 

132 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

aged  so  to  disturb  her.  She  glanced  about  hastily 
as  if  measuring  the  room  in  a  swift  impulse  toward 
escape.  Stillman  had  chosen  the  dining-room  for 
a  temporary  office,  and  upon  the  polished  surface 
of  the  antique  walnut  table  the  typewriter  struck 
an  incongruous  note;  indeed,  it  was  all  incongru 
ous,  particularly  Stillman  and  his  assumed  business 
airs.  Yes,  it  was  absurd  for  her  to  either  cross- 
examine  or  protest,  but  it  was  equally  absurd  for 
him  to  pay  her  such  an  outlandish  sum  for  nine 
hours  a  week. 

"He's  doing  it  for  me,"  she  thought,  not  without 
a  sense  of  triumph.  Then,  turning  to  him,  she 
said,  a  bit  awkwardly: 

"I  guess  there  isn't  any  use  to  dissuade  you, 
Mr.  Stillman.  If  you  say  fifteen  dollars  a  week, 
I  sha'n't  argue  with  you." 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  all  his  former  suavity 
regained.  She  slid  into  her  seat  again.  Her  mind 
was  recalling  vividly  the  one  other  time  in  her  life 
when  she  had  grappled  vigorously  with  the  mascu 
line  spirit  of  domination,  and  come  away  victorious. 
This  time  she  had  been  defeated  and  she  had  im 
pulses  toward  relief  and  fear.  She  looked  up 
suddenly  and  trapped  a  solicitous  glance  from 
Stillman  that  rather  annoyed  her.  And  it  struck 
her,  as  she  mentally  compared  Stillman  with  most 
of  the  men  of  her  acquaintance,  how  far  he  could 
have  loomed  above  them  if  he  had  had  the  will  for 
such  a  performance.  As  it  was  he  fell  somewhat 
beneath  them  in  a  curious,  indefinable  way.  Had 
he  been  too  finely  tempered  by  circumstances  or 
had  the  flame  of  life  lacked  the  proper  heat  for  fus- 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ing  his  virtues  effectively?  For  the  moment  she 
found  Flint's  forthright  insolence  more  tolerable 
than  Stillman's  sterile  deference.  Suddenly  she 
began  to  think  of  home,  not  with  any  sense  of 
security,  but  as  something  unpleasant,  dark,  dis 
quieting.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XII 

six  o'clock  one  afternoon  in  late 
1  February  Ned  Stillman,  making  his  way  from 
the  business  district  at  California  and  Montgom 
ery  Streets  toward  his  club,  suddenly  remembered 
a  forgotten  luncheon  engagement  for  that  day 
with  Lily  Condor. 

"Well,"  he  muttered  at  once,  "I'm  in  for  it  now! 
I  guess  I  might  as  well  swing  out  and  see  her  and 
get  the  thing  over  with." 

It  was  curious  of  late  how  often  he  was  given 
to  muttering.  Previously,  petty  annoyances  had 
not  moved  him  to  these  half-audible  and  solitary 
comments  which  he  had  always  found  contemptu 
ously  amusing  in  others.  He  wondered  whether 
this  new  trick  was  the  result  of  his  business  vent 
ures,  his  sly  charities,  or  his  approach  toward  the 
suggestive  age  of  forty.  Associating  the  name  of 
Lily  Condor  with  his  covert  charities,  he  was  almost 
persuaded  that  they  lay  back  of  this  preposterous 
habit.  And  the  more  he  thought  about  it  the  more 
he  muttered  and  became  convinced  that  Lily 
Condor  was  usually  the  topic  of  these  vocal  self- 
communings.  « 

Ned  Stillman  had  always  prided  himself  upon 
his  sense  of  personal  freedom  concerning  the  trivial 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

circumstances  of  life.  Of  course,  like  any  man  of 
sensibility,  he  was  bound  by  the  chains  that  deeper 
impulses  forge,  but  he  had  never  been  hampered 
by  any  restraints  directed  at  his  ordinary  uprisings 
and  downsittings.  In  short,  he  had  answered  the 
beck  and  nod  of  no  man,  much  less  a  woman,  and  he 
was  not  finding  Lily  Condor's  growing  presumptions 
along  this  line  altogether  agreeable. 

He  would  not  have  minded  so  much  if  there  was 
any  personal  gratification  in  yielding  to  the  lady's 
whip-hand  commands.  There  are  certain  delights 
in  self -surrender  which  give  a  zest  to  slavery,  but 
there  is  no  joy  in  being  held  a  hostage.  Looking 
back,  Stillman  marveled  at  the  indiscretion  he  had 
committed  when  he  handed  over  not  only  his  re 
serve,  but  Claire  Robson's  reputation  into  the  safe 
keeping  of  Lily  Condor.  Had  he  ever  had  the  sim 
plicity  to  imagine  that  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Condor's 
stamp  would  constitute  herself  a  safe-deposit  vault 
for  hoarding  secrets  without  exacting  a  price? 
Well,  perhaps  he  had  expected  to  pay,  but  a  little 
less  publicly.  He  had  not  looked  to  have  the  lady 
in  question  ring  every  coin  audibly  in  full  view  and 
hearing  of  the  entire  market-place,  and  yet,  if  his 
experience  had  stood  him  in  good  stead,  he  must 
have  known  that  this  was  precisely  what  she 
would  do.  Stillman 's  hidden  gratitude,  his  pri 
vate  beneficences,  did  not  serve  her  purpose,  but 
the  spectacle  of  him  in  the  r61e  of  her  debtor  was 
a  sight  that  went  a  long  way  to  establishing  a  social 
credit  impoverished  by  no  end  of  false  ventures. 

Her  command  for  him  to  take  her  to  luncheon — 
and  it  had  been  a  command,  however  suavely  she 

136 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

had  managed  to  veil  it — bore  also  the  stamp  of 
urgency.  Usually  she  was  content  to  lay  all  her 
positive  requests  to  the  charge  of  mere  caprice,  , 
but  on  this  occasion  she  took  the  trouble  to  inti 
mate  that  there  was  a  particular  reason  for  wanting 
to  see  him.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to  conclude 
that  this  particular  reason  had  to  do  with  Claire 
Robson.  That  was  why  he  yielded  with  a  better 
grace  than  he  had  been  giving  to  his  troublesome 
friend's  disagreeable  pressure. 

Stillman  knew  that  while  Lily  Condor  was  not 
precisely  jealous  of  the  younger  woman,  she  was 
distinctly  envious — with  the  impersonal  but  acrid 
envy  of  middle  age  for  youth.  The  episode  of  the 
orchids  still  rankled.  He  had  to  admit  that  in  this 
instance  his  course  had  been  tactless,  but  he  had 
ignored  Mrs.  Condor  as  a  challenge  to  the  pre 
sumption  which  he  had  already  begun  to  sense. 
She,  while  seeming  definitely  to  evade  the  real 
issue,  had  answered  the  challenge  and  he  had 
paid  for  his  temerity  a  hundredfold.  She  had 
reminded  him  again  and  again  in  deft  but  none 
the  less  positive  terms  that  she  was  keeping  a 
finger  on  the  mainspring  of  any  advantage  that 
came  her  way.  Sometimes  Stillman  wondered 
whether  she  would  really  be  cattish  enough  to  be-  ! 
tray  his  confidence  and  bring  Claire  Robson  crash 
ing  down  under  the  weight  of  the  questionable 
position  into  which  his  indiscretion  had  forced  her. 
Would  she  really  have  the  face  to  publish  abroad 
the  pregnant  fact  that  Ned  Stillman  was  providing 
what  she  had  been  pleased  to  designate  as  a  meal- 
ticket  for  a  young  woman  in  difficulty?  For  him- 
10  W 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

self  he  cared  little,  except  that  he  always  shrank 
instinctively  from  appearing  ridiculous. 

He  had  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of  late  as  to 
the  best  course  to  pursue  in  ridding  himself  and 
Claire  of  this  menacing  incubus.  He  had  a  feeling 
that  Claire,  having  exhausted  the  novelties  of  her 
position  as  accompanist  to  Lily  Condor,  was  be 
ginning  to  find  the  affair  irksome. 

The  business  venture  had  progressed  in  quite 
another  direction  from  his  original  intention. 
Suddenly,  without  knowing  how  it  had  all  come 
about,  he  found  his  plans  clearly  defined.  The 
government  needed  him.  Somehow,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  could  be  of  service  at  a  point 
so  far  from  the  center  of  war  activities.  He  had 
been  a  good  deal  of  an  idler,  it  was  true,  but  the 
seeds  of  achievement  were  merely  lying  in  fallow 
soil. 

At  first,  he  had  been  stung  into  action  more  by 
Claire's  accusing  attitude  than  anything  else.  She 
used  to  come  every  other  afternoon  at  the  appointed 
time  and  almost  challenge  him  by  her  reproachful 
silence  to  do  something,  if  only  to  provide  her  with 
an  illusion.  It  was  as  if  she  said: 

"See,  I  have  given  in  to  you.  I  know  that  you 
are  doing  this  for  me,  and  I  am  deeply  grateful. 
But  won't  you  please  make  the  situation  a  little 
less  transparent?  Won't  you  at  least  justify  me 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  watching  our  little 
performance?  ..." 

It  had  all  ended  by  his  offering  his  services  to 
the  Food  Administration.  He  knew  something 
of  his  father's  business.  He  felt  that  he  had  a 

138 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

fair  knowledge  of  beans,  and  he  could  learn  more. 
He  merely  asked  a  trial,  and  it  surprised  him  to 
find  what  a  sense  of  humility  suddenly  possessed 
him.  He  was  really  overjoyed  when  a  place  was 
assured  him.  But  he  had  to  admit  that  his  accept 
ance  was  not  accorded  any  great  enthusiasm.  The 
newspapers  mentioned  it  in  a  scant  paragraph  that 
was  not  even  given  a  prominent  place.  He  had 
received  greater  recognition  for  a  brilliant  play 
upon  the  golf-links!  Well,  in  such  stirring  times 
he  was  nobody.  He  did  not  complain,  even  to 
himself,  but  the  knowledge  subconsciously  rankled. 

He  hired  an  office  down-town,  joined  the  Com 
mercial  Club,  religiously  attended  every  meeting 
that  had  to  do  with  food  conservation,  hunted  out, 
absorbed,  appropriated  all  the  economic  secrets 
that  served  his  purpose.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  found 
himself  engrossed,  enthusiastic,  busy!  Finally 
Claire  said  to  him  one  day: 

"  Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  come  to  you  every 
afternoon?" 

"If  you  can  arrange  it,"  he  almost  snapped  back 
at  her. 

She  did  arrange  it,  how  he  took  no  pains  to  in 
quire,  and  a  little  later  she  said  again: 

"You  ought  to  have  some  one  here  all  day.  I 
guess  you  will  have  to  look  for  another  stenog 
rapher." 

He  remembered  how  menacingly  he  had  darted 
at  her.  She  was  dressed  for  the  street,  on  her  way 
home,  and  she  had  halted  at  the  door. 

"Do  you  want  to  desert  the  work  that  you've 
inspired?"  he  demanded. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

11  Inspired?  ...  By  me?"  Her  voice  took  on  a 
note  of  triumph. 

"You  didn't  fancy  that  /  inspired  it,  did  you?" 
he  sneered  at  her. 

His  vehemence  confused  her.  "I  hadn't  thought 
.  .  .  Really,  you  know  .  .  .  Well,  as  you  say  .  .  . 
But,  of  course,  it  is  absurd  when  you  can  get  any 
number  of  girls  to  .  .  ." 

"But  suppose  I  want  you?"  he  demanded  of  her 
for  a  second  time. 

She  left  without  further  reply. 

When  she  was  gone  he  found  himself  in  a  nasty 
panic.  It  was  as  if  the  lady  who  had  called  him  to 
her  lists  had  suddenly  decided  upon  a  new  defender. 

"Is  she  tired  of  it  all  ...  or  is  there  some  one 
else?  Can  it  be  possible  that  Flint  ..." 

He  had  stopped  short,  amazed  to  find  his  mind 
descending  to  such  a  vulgar  level.  What  had  come 
over  him?  And  he  began  to  fancy  things  as  they 
once  had  been — empty,  purposeless  days,  and  nights 
that  found  him  too  bored  to  even  sleep.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  he  could  go  back  to  them  again. 
What  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  sudden  deep-breathed 
satisfaction  with  life?  For  an  instant,  the  truth 
which  he  had  kept  at  bay  with  his  old  trick  of 
evasion  swept  toward  him. 

"No  .  .  .  no,"  he  muttered.  "Oh  no!  .  .  . 
That  would  be  too  absurd!" 

But  when  he  had  gone  to  the  mirror  to  brush 
his  hair  before  venturing  on  the  street  he  found 
thick  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead  and  his 
hand  shook  as  he  lifted  the  comb. 

The  next  day  he  told  Claire  that  in  the  future 
140 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

her  salary  would  be  twenty  dollars  a  week.  He 
stood  expecting  her  to  rail  against  the  increase,  to 
try  to  put  him  to  rout  by  explaining  that  she  had 
received  less  for  a  full  day's  work  at  Flint's.  But 
to  his  surprise  she  thanked  him  and  went  on  with 
her  work. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  he  began  to  haunt 
the  various  performances  in  which  Lily  Condor 
and  Claire  appeared.  He  always  contrived  to  slip 
in  during  the  first  number,  which  as  a  rule  happened 
to  be  Mrs.  Condor's  offering,  and  he  sat  in  a  far 
corner  where  nobody  but  that  lady  could  have 
chanced  upon  him.  But  he  never  knew  her  to 
fail  in  locating  him,  or  to  miss  the  opportunity  to 
sit  out  the  remainder  of  the  program  at  his  side, 
or  to  suggest  crab-legs  Louis  at  Tait's,  particularly 
if  Claire  were  determined  upon  an  early  leave- 
taking.  The  effect  of  all  this  was  not  lost  upon 
the  general  public,  and  it  was  not  long  before  men 
of  Stillman's  acquaintance  used  to  remark  face 
tiously  to  him  over  the  lunch-table: 

"What's  new  in  beans  to-day?  .  .  .  Are  reds 
still  a  favorite?" 

Stillman  would  throw  back  an  equally  cryptic 
answer,  thinking  as  he  did  so : 

"What  a  wigging  I  must  be  getting  over  the 
teacups!  I  guess  I'll  cut  it  all  out  in  the  future." 

But  he  usually  went  no  farther  than  his  impulsive 
resolves. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  what  Claire  thought  of 
his  faithful  appearance.  Did  she  fancy  that  he 
came  to  bask  in  the  smiling  impertinences  of  Lily 
Condor? 

141 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

As  he  made  his  way  to  a  street-car  on  this  vivid 
February  afternoon,  he  called  to  mind  that  of  late 
Claire  had  been  bringing  a  fagged  look  to  her  daily 
tasks.  He  hoped  again  that  Mrs.  Condor's  desire 
to  see  him  had  to  do  with  Claire — more  particularly 
with  her  dismissal  as  accompanist.  Miss  Menzies 
had  quite  recovered  and  there  was  really  no  reason 
for  Claire  to  continue  in  her  service.  It  struck 
him  as  he  pondered  all  these  matters  how  strange 
it  was  to  find  him  concerned  about  these  feminine 
adjustments — he  who  had  always  stared  down  upon 
trivial  circumstances  with  cold  scorn. 

He  arrived  at  Lily  Condor's  apartments  almost 
upon  the  lady's  heels.  Her  hat  was  still  ornament 
ing  the  center-table  and  her  wrap  lay  upon  a  wicker 
rocker,  where,  with  a  quick  movement  of  irritation, 
it  had  been  cast  aside. 

Her  greeting  was  not  reassuring.  "Oh  ..." 
she  began  coldly.  "  Isn't  this  rather  late  for 
lunch?" 

"I'm  really  very  sorry,"  Stillman  returned  as  he 
took  a  chair,  "but  to  be  frank,  I  quite  forgot 
about  you." 

"Well,"  she  tried  to  laugh  back  at  him,  "there 
isn't  any  virtue  as  disagreeable  as  the  truth.  I 
expected  you  would  at  least  attempt  to  be  polite 
enough  to  lie." 

"I  hope  you  were  not  too  greatly  inconven 
ienced,"  he  said,  in  a  deliberate  attempt  to  ignore 
her  irritation. 

"I  waited  two  hours,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
But  then,  my  time  isn't  particularly  valuable." 

He  rose  suddenly.  "I've  told  you  that  I  was 
142 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

sorry,"  he  began  coldly,  reaching  for  his  hat.  * ' But 
evidently  you  are  determined  to  be  disagreeable. 
I  fancied  you  wanted  to  see  me  about  something 
urgent,  so  I  came  almost  as  soon  as  I  remembered." 

She  snatched  the  discarded  wrap  from  its  place 
on  the  wicker  rocker  as  she  glared  at  him.  "You're 
in  something  of  a  hurry,  it  seems.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
sha'n't  detain  you.  The  truth  is  there's  a  pretty 
kettle  of  fish  stewed  up  over  this  young  woman, 
Claire  Robson.  ...  I  want  you  to  tell  her  that  she 
can't  play  at  the  Cafe  Chantant  next  Friday  night." 

"Want  me  to  tell  her?  I  don't  see  where  I  come 
in.  ...  Why  don't  you  tell  her  yourself?" 

"Because  I  don't  choose  to.  ...  Besides,  I  think 
you  might  do  it  a  little  more  delicately.  I  can't 
tell  her  brutally  that  she  isn't  wanted." 

"Isn't  wanted?    Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"The  committee  informs  me  that  she  isn't  the 
sort  of  person  they  are  accustomed  to  have  featured 
in  their  entertainments.  It  seems  that  Mrs. 
Flint  .  .  ." 

"Mrs.   Sawyer  Flint?" 

"Precisely." 

"What  is  her  objection?" 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  tell  you?" 

"Why  not?"  * 

"It  appears  that  some  time  last  fall  Miss  Robson 
tried  to  get  her  husband  into  a  compromising 
position.  She  came  over  to  the  house  one  night 
when  Mrs.  Flint  was  away.  Flint  promptly  ordered 
her  out.  It  seems  she  went  ...  to  be  quite  frank 
.  .  .  with  you.  And  what  is  more,  she  ..." 

"It  isn't  necessary  for  you  to  go  any  farther. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Tell  me,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  believe  this 
thing?  Didn't  you  lift  a  hand  to  defend  her?" 

Lily  Condor  narrowed  her  eyes.  "Oh,  come 
now,  Ned  Stillman,  don't  be  a  fool!  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  I'm  hanging  on  to  my  own  repu 
tation  by  my  finger-nails.  I'm  not  taking  any 
chances.  As  to  whether  it  is  so  .  .  .  well,  if  I  were 
to  tell  the  committee  everything  I  know  it  wouldn't 
help  her  cause  any.  I  could  wreck  her  reputation 
like  that,"  she  snapped  her  fingers,  "with  one  soli 
tary  fact.  If  she  hasn't  wrecked  it  already  with 
her  senseless  chatter.  .  .  .  Only  last  week  her  aunt, 
Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown,  said  to  me :  '  So  you're  hiring 
my  niece!  I  must  say  that  is  handsome  of  you!' 
You  were  sitting  talking  to  Claire  and  she  looked 
deliberately  at  you  when  she  said  it.  Remember 
how  I  warned  you,  last  December.  I  told  you 
then  that  the  secret  of  a  woman's  meal-ticket  was 
never  hidden  very  long." 

During  this  speech  Mrs.  Condor's  voice  had 
dropped  from  its  original  tone  of  petty  rancor  to 
one  of  petulant  self-justification.  Stillman  knew 
at  once  that  her  ill-temper  had  caught  her  off- 
guard  and  she  was  already  trying  to  crawl  slowly 
back  into  his  favor.  She  had  meant,  no  doubt,  to 
soften  her  news  over  a  glass  or  two  of  chilled  white 
wine  which  she  had  counted  on  sipping  during  the 
noon  hour.  She  might  even  then  have  gone  farther 
and  decided  to  cast  her  fortunes  with  Stillman  and 
Claire  if  she  had  seen  that  her  advantage  lay  in 
that  direction.  He  was  not  sure  but  that  she  still 
had  some  such  notion  in  her  mind.  But  he  felt 
suddenly  sick  of  her  past  all  hope  of  compromise, 

144 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

and  he  was  determined  to  be  rid  of  her  once  and 
for  all. 

"No  doubt,"  he  said,  frigidly,  "you  will  be  glad 
to  be  relieved  of  Miss  Robson's  presence  perma 
nently.  I  take  it  that  you  don't  consider  her 
association  exactly  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  shall  we  say 
discreet?" 

Her  eyes  took  on  a  yellow  tinge  as  she  faced  him. 
She  must  have  sensed  the  finality  of  his  tone,  the 
well-bred  insolence  that  his  query  suggested. 

"Discreet?"  she  echoed.  "Well,  I  wouldn't 
say  that  that  was  quite  what  I  meant.  Desirable — 
that  would  be  better.  I  don't  find  her  association 
desirable.  ...  I  don't  want  her,  in  other  words." 

He  had  never  been  so  angry  in  his  life.  Had 
she  been  a  man  he  would  have  struck  her.  He 
felt  himself  choking.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Condor," 
he  warned,  "will  you  be  good  enough  to  take  a 
little  more  respectful  tone  when  you  speak  of  Miss 
Robson?" 

"Oh,  indeed!  And  just  what  are  your  rights  in 
the  matter?  You're  not  her  brother  .  .  .  you're 
surely  not  her  husband.  And  I  didn't  know  that 
it  was  the  fashion  for  a  ..."  His  look  stopped 
her.  She  trembled  a  moment,  tossed  back  her  head, 
and  finished,  defiantly,  "Yes,  that  is  what  I  want 
to  know,  what  are  your  rights?" 

He  took  a  step  toward  her.  Instinctively  she 
retreated. 

"A  woman  like  you  wouldn't  understand  even 
if  I  were  to  tell  you,"  he  flung  at  her. 

She  covered  her  face  with  both  hands. 

He  left  the  room. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  himself  was  trembling  as  he  reached  the  street 
— trembling  for  the  first  time  in  years.  As  a  child 
he  had  been  given  to  these  fits  of  emotional  tremors, 
but  he  had  long  since  lost  the  faculty  for  recording 
physically  his  intense  moments.  Or  had  he  lost 
the  faculty  for  the  intense  moments  themselves, 
he  found  himself  wondering,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
toward  his  home.  The  evening  was  warm  with 
the  perfume  of  a  bit  of  truant  summer  that  had 
somehow  escaped  before  its  time  to  hearten  a 
winter-weary  world  against  the  bitter  assaults  of 
March.  Birds  of  passage  sang  among  the  hedges, 
the  sun  still  cast  a  faint  greenish  glow  in  the  ex 
treme  west. 

His  first  thought  was  of  the  cowering  woman  he 
had  just  left.  He  had  meant  to  lash  her  keenly 
with  his  verbal  whipcords,  but  he  had  not  expected 
to  find  her  quite  so  sensitive  to  his  cutting  scorn. 
He  remembered  the  gesture  with  which  she  had 
lifted  her  hand  as  if  to  screen  herself  from  his  in 
sults.  There  was  a  whole  life  of  futile  compromise 
in  just  the  manner  of  that  gesture,  a  growing  help 
lessness  to  give  straightforward  thrusts,  a  pitiful 
admission  of  defeat.  But  he  knew  that  this  sur 
render  was  temporary — a  quick  lifting  of  the  mask 
under  a  relentless  pressure.  To-morrow,  in  an  hour, 
in  ten  minutes,  Lily  Condor  would  be  her  dangerous 
self  again,  lashed  into  the  fury  of  a  woman  scorned. 
For  a  moment  he  did  not  know  whether  to  be 
relieved  or  dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  Mrs. 
Condor  for  an  enemy.  How  much  would  she 
really  dare? 

He  thought  with  a  lowering  anger  of  Flint.  He 
146 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

had  been  ready  to  concede  everything  but  this 
former  friend  in  the  r61e  of  a  cheap  and  nasty  gossip. 
No  —  gossip  was  a  pale,  sickly  term.  Flint 
was  a  malignant  toad,  a  nauseous  mud-slinger, 
a  deliberate  liar.  He  had  heard  of  men  who  had 
justified  themselves  with  vile  tales  to  their  insipid, 
disgustingly  virtuous  wives,  but  he  had  not  counted 
such  among  his  acquaintances.  By  the  side  of 
Flint,  Lily  Condor  loomed  a  very  paragon  of  the 
social  amenities. 

Stillman  was  conscious  that  his  mental  process 
was  keyed  to  the  highest  pitch  of  melodrama. 
It  was  not  usual  for  him  to  indulge  in  mental  abuse. 
He  had  never  quite  understood  the  dark  and  mov 
ing  processes  of  red-eyed  anger.  There  had  been 
something  absurd  in  the  theatrical  hauteur  of  his 
manner  in  this  last  scene -with  Mrs.  Condor — that 
is,  if  it  were  measured  by  his  own  standards.  His 
growing  detachments  from  life  had  claimed  him 
almost  to  the  point  of  complete  indifference.  But 
now,  suddenly,  as  if  Fate  had  dealt  him  an  in 
sulting  blow  upon  the  face  with  her  bare  palm,  he 
felt  not  only  rage,  but  a  sense  of  its  futility,  its 
impotence. 

"Flint!"  he  thought  again.  And  immediately 
he  spewed  forth  the  memory  of  this  man  in  a  flood 
of  indiscriminate  epithets. 

Later,  in  the  refuge  of  his  own  four  walls  and 
under  the  brooding  solace  of  an  after-dinner  cigar, 
he  lost  some  of  the  intensiveness  of  his  former 
humor.  But  the  force  of  the  vehemence  which 
had  shaken  him  filled  him  with  much  wonder  and 

147 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

some  apprehension.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of 
experience  to  deny  questions  when  they  were  put 
to  him  squarely  by  circumstances. 

"You're  not  her  brother  .  .  .  you're  surely  not 
her  husband.  And  I  didn't  know  it  was  the  fashion 
for  a  .  .  ." 

Lily  Condor's  clipped  question  struck  him 
squarely  now.  Just  what  were  his  expectations 
concerning  Claire  Robson?  The  thought  turned 
him  cold.  Essentially  he  was  of  Puritan  mold, 
but  he  had  always  had  a  theory  that  love  of  illicit 
pleasures  must  have  been  uncommonly  strong  in 
a  people  who  found  it  necessary  to  fight  the  flesh 
so  uncompromisingly.  Battling  with  the  elements 
upon  the  bleak  shores  of  New  England  contributed, 
no  doubt,  to  the  gray  and  chastened  spirits  that 
these  grim  folks  had  won  for  themselves;  spirits 
that  colored  and  sometimes  seeded  swiftly  under 
the  softer  skies  of  California.  San  Francisco  was 
full  of  these  forced  blooms  consumed  and  withered 
by  the  sudden  heat  of  a  free  and  traditionless  life. 
He  knew  scores  of  old-timers — his  father's  friends — 
who  had  been  gloriously  wrecked  by  the  passion 
with  which  they  met  freedom's  kiss.  They  had 
pursued  pleasure  with  an  energy  overtrained  in 
wrestling  with  the  devil  and  had  paid  the  penalty 
of  all  ardent  souls  lacking  the  prudence  of  weakness. 
There  was  at  once  something  fine  and  unlawful 
about  the  spirit  of  adventure:  it  implied  courage, 
impatience  of  restraint,  wilfulness — in  short,  all  the 
virtues  and  vices  of  strength.  He  had  felt  at 
times  the  heritage  of  this  strength,  shorn  of  its 
power  by  the  softness  of  a  wilderness  that  had  been 

148 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

wooed  instead  of  conquered.  His  forefathers  had 
found  California  a  waiting,  gracious  bride,  but  there 
had  been  almost  a  suggestion  of  the  courtezan  in 
the  lavishness  of  this  land's  response  to  the  caresses 
of  the  invaders. 

There  was  something  fantastic  in  the  memory 
of  his  father,  fresh  from  the  austere  dawns  of  the 
little  fishing  village  of  Gloucester,  transplanted 
suddenly  to  the  wine-red  sunsets  of  the  Golden 
Gate.  He  felt  that  his  father  must  have  had  the 
courage  for  substance-wasting  without  the  tempta 
tion.  Most  men  in  those  early  days  had  plunged 
unyoked  into  the  race — Ezra  Stillman  brought  his 
bride,  and  therefore  his  household  goods,  with  him, 
and  unconsciously  custom  drew  its  restraining  rein 
tight.  Ezra  Stillman  came  from  a  long  line  of 
salt-seasoned  tempters  of  the  sea;  their  virtues 
had  been  rugged  and  their  vices  equally  robust; 
sin  with  them  had  been  gaunt,  sinewy,  unlovely; 
there  was  nothing  insinuating  and  soft  about  the 
lure  of  pleasure  in  that  silver-nooned  environment. 
Ezra  had  been  the  first  of  this  long  line  to  turn  his 
back  upon  the  sea,  and  the  land  had  rewarded  him 
lavishly  as  if  determined  to  make  his  capture  com 
plete.  Yet,  he  was  not  landsman  enough  to  wrest 
a  living  direct  from  the  soil;  instead,  he  set  up  his 
booth  in  the  market-place  of  the  town  and  trafficked 
in  spoils  of  the  field,  in  full  view  of  the  impatient 
ships  tugging  at  their  anchor-chains.  While  others 
dug  for  gold,  or  garnered  the  yellowing  grain,  or 
built  railroads,  Ezra  Stillman  sat  in  his  modest 
office  and  sold  beans  and  potatoes  and  onions, 
playing  the  r61e  of  merchant,  husband,  and  father 

149 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

with  genial  and  unsensational  success — a  man  of 
potential  lawlessness,  robbed  of  all  wolfish  tenden 
cies  by  the  sobering  influence  of  domestic  responsi 
bility,  after  the  manner  of  a  shepherd-dog  broken 
to  guard  the  flock. 

Ned  Stillman  used  to  wonder  how  much  of  this 
smoldering  lawlessness  had  been  transmitted  to 
him;  for  was  not  there  an  added  heritage  from 
his  thin-lipped  mother  who  came  of  as  hardy  and 
masterful  a  stock  as  her  husband  ? 

Smoldering  lawlessness  —  to-night  the  phrase 
struck  him  sharply.  He  had  failed  at  many  points, 
but  he  had  held  uncompromisingly  to  his  duty, 
almost  with  a  fury  of  self-conscious  puritanical 
fanaticism.  His  wife  .  .  .  yes,  he  had  always 
done  his  duty  by  her — more  than  his  duty.  Then, 
what  was  to  prevent  him  from  gathering  such 
flowers  as  he  might  .  .  .  Up  to  a  point  he  could 
still  play  the  game  squarely.  Up  to  a  point! 

He  turned  in  futile  anger  and  weariness  from 
such  thoughts  to  the  tinkling  refuge  of  the  evening 
paper.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  Russian  Ballet  was  opening 
at  the  Valencia  Theater  on  Friday  night!  A  fra 
grant  memory  of  Paris  blew  in  upon  the  breath  of 
this  announcement — Paris,  eternally  young  and 
as  eternally  glamorous!  And  glancing  swiftly  at 
the  next  column,  he  chanced  upon  a  full  account 
of  this  tiresome  Cafe  Chantant  business  that  had 
occasioned  so  much  bother  .  .  .  for  the  benefit  of 
the  French  Tobacco  Fimd — France  again! 

Suddenly  he  grew  thoughtful. 

"A  box  for  the  Ballet  and  a  table  for  the  Caf<§ 
Chantant.  ...  I'll  ask  Edington  and  his  sister 

150 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

.  .  .  that  ought  to  make  things  look  right.  .  .  . 
Gad!  how  the  old  ladies  will  stare!" 

He  threw  the  paper  down  and,  as  he  chuckled, 
little  malicious  gleams  darted  from  his  eyes.  He 
would  show  them,  all  of  them !  And  as  for  her  .  .  . 
What  did  he  expect?  .  .  .  He  wanted  her,  wanted 
her,  wanted  her!  And  yet.  .  .  .  Smoldering  law 
lessness.  .  .  .  Yes  ...  he  would  chance  everything 
now,  even  that. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

'"THE  Russian  Ballet  opened  with  what  was  called 
A  on  the  program,  "A  ballet  comi-dramatic  by 
Warslav  Nijinsky,  entitled  'Till  Eulens  pie  gel.'  "  It 
would  have  been  more  to  the  point  to  have  sched 
uled  it  as  a  pantomime;  at  least,  such  a  course 
would  have  proved  somewhat  illuminating  to  an 
audience  a  little  in  the  dark  concerning  the  nature 
of  the  entertainment  to  be  set  before  it.  San 
Francisco,  schooled  in  the  memory  of  hectic  opera 
seasons  with  their  inevitable  pirouetting,  tarlatan- 
skirted  ballets,  had  come  to  the  performance  with 
a  rather  set  notion  as  to  what  it  had  a  right  to  expect. 
True,  barefoot  dancers  by  the  score  had  swept  in 
upon  the  town,  and  it  had  been  ravished  by  the 
combined  charms  of  Pavlova  and  Mordkin,  but 
all  of  these  novelties  at  least  had  ministered  to  an 
unsophisticated  desire  to  see  the  principals  starred 
in  big  type  on  the  program  and  constantly  in  the 
limelight.  Therefore  when  the  curtain  fell  upon 
a  ballet  that  was  neither  danced  nor  postured,  and 
with  the  leading  dancer  of  the  troupe  remaining 
in  the  picture  instead  of  an  arresting  and  flamboy 
ant  spot  upon  it,  there  was  little  wonder  that  the 
applause  was  at  once  perfunctory  and  puzzled. 
Neither  the  dancers  nor  their  new  art  was  any 
/  152 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

novelty  to  Ned  Stillman.  He  had  seen  both  in 
Paris,  and  again  in  New  York.  But  he  had  to 
confess  that  this  third  view  was  proving  the  most 
enjoyable  of  all,  and  he  was  amused  and  a  trifle 
supercilious  at  the  air  of  frank  disapproval  through 
out  the  audience.  Indeed,  he  became  so  interested 
in  analyzing  his  fellow- townsmen's  attitude  that 
momentarily  he  forgot  his  box  party  was  a  challenge 
to  any  and  all  who  cared  to  interest  themselves  in 
discovering  his  guests. 

So  far  he  had  not  been  conscious  of  a  single  pair 
of  opera-glasses  turned  their  way  and  he  began  to 
feel  at  once  cheated,  but,  if  the  truth  were  told,  a 
trifle  relieved.  He  knew  almost  as  soon  as  he  had 
committed  to  the  venture  that  it  was  cheap  and  in 
bad  taste,  and  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
the  point  of  acknowledging  his  mistake.  He  had 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  also  that  Claire  Robson 
was  facing  the  ordeal  of  a  box  with  silent  heroism, 
not  that  she  was  a  woman  vulgar  enough  to  dread 
a  conspicuous  position  in  itself,  but  because  she 
had  an  instinctive  sense  of  what  was  fitting.  He 
had  not  mentioned  a  box  party  when  he  had  first 
asked  her.  He  merely  had  said: 

"How  would  you  like  a  night  off  Friday?" 
"A  night  off?    I'm  scheduled  for  a  turn  with  Mrs. 
Condor." 

"Well,  and  if  she  should  be  willing  to  let  you  go?" 
She  had  assented  eagerly,  and  when  he  mentioned 
the  Russian  Ballet  she  gave  a  cry  of  delight. 

"Edington  and  his  sister,   Mrs.   Forsythe,   are 
going,  too,"  he  explained,  rather  hastily.    "I  .  .  . 
I  got  a  box  this  morning." 
11  '53 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"A  box?"     Her  voice  had  risen  dubiously. 

"There's  nothing  else  left  that  is  decent,"  he 
had  lied  to  her. 

But  he  saw  that  she  was  far  from  happy  at  the 
prospect,  although  she  was  too  proud  to  voice  any 
further  protests. 

Curiously  enough,  even  Phil  Edington  had  de 
murred. 

"A  box?  What's  the  big  idea?  Why  don't  you 
get  some  seats  in  the  orchestra?  ...  Oh,  I  don't 
care  a  rap!  Do  as  you  want,  but  I  thought  that 
perhaps  ..." 

At  that  point  he  had  begun  to  grow  irritated; 
he  decided  obstinately  that  his  guests  would  either 
go  in  a  box  or  remain  at  home. 

Well,  they  had  come  in  a  box,  and  the  audience 
appeared  to  be  ignoring  them.  He  had  expected 
something  more  brilliant  in  the  way  of  an  assembly, 
but  the  house  was  dressed,  on  the  whole,  rather 
illy  for  the  occasion,  as  San  Francisco  audiences 
quite  often  are.  To  begin  with,  the  Valencia 
Theater  was  out  of  the  beaten  path,  and  a  heavy 
rain  was  falling.  This  had  the  effect  of  making  the 
prudent  and  frugal,  who  were  denied  the  comfort 
of  either  limousines  or  taxis,  decide  on  street  cos 
tume  instead  of  evening  fripperies.  Only  the  very- 
smartest  people  could  afford  to  ignore  the  elements, 
and  even  these  were  obliged  to  withstand  the  chill 
of  a  draughty  playhouse  by  snuggling  close  into 
their  opera  cloaks  and  thus  concealing  the  bare 
throats  and  flashing  jewels  that  a  more  comfortable 
environment  might  have  disclosed.  On  the  whole, 
he  was  disappointed.  One  of  his  reasons  for  de- 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ciding  upon  a  box  was  to  give  Claire  the  treat  of  a 
scintillating  audience  seen  from  a  perfect  vantage- 
point.  But  he  had  forgotten  that  his  native  town 
rarely  dazzled  the  spectators  except  for  grand  opera 
at  staggering  prices,  and  even  then  there  were 
always  plenty  of  recalcitrant  males  in  their  business 
suits  to  spoil  the  picture.  San  Francisco  had  not 
yet  reached  the  point  where  its  men  consciously 
and  as  a  whole  dressed  for  the  occasion ;  there  was 
still  the  sneer  of  effeminacy  directed  at  those  who 
insisted  on  taking  seriously  the  matter  of  suitable 
raiment. 

To-night  Claire  had  made  an  effort  at  extreme 
simplicity.  She  was  in  severe  black,  open  slightly 
at  the  throat,  and  a  large  artificial  pink  rose  added 
a  single  note  of  color.  Having  no  jewels,  she  wore 
none,  and  her  hair  fell  away  from  her  brow  in  a  grace 
utterly  natural  and  charming.  He  had  always 
thought  of  her  hair  vaguely  as  dark — to-night, 
standing  just  behind  her  where  the  light  searched 
out  its  half-tones,  he  discovered  glinting  bits  that 
ran  all  the  way  from  burnished  copper  to  shining 
gold.  During  the  first  number  she  sat  slightly  for 
ward,  intent  on  letting  no  detail  escape.  When 
the  curtain  fell  upon  the  whimsical  Till  dangling 
from  a  gibbet  in  the  medieval  market-place,  Still- 
man  leaned  forward  and  said: 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

He  did  not  realize  how  much  it  meant  to  have 
her  strike  just  the  proper  note,  until  his  heart 
bounded  with  satisfaction  at  her  frank  and  unstud 
ied  answer: 

"I   really   don't   know,    Mr.    Stillman.     It's   so 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 
different.     You  see,  I  was  looking  for  something 


more  . 


She  stopped  suddenly  as  if  it  occurred  to  her 
that,  after  all,  she  could  not  say  precisely  just  what 
she  had  been  looking  for.  "But  it's  tremendously 
interesting,  of  course,"  she  hastened  to  add. 

He  glowed  even  at  her  eagerness  to  make  him 
understand  that  she  was  finding  her  very  indecision 
a  joy. 

"Yes,  it  was  the  same  with  me  ...  at  first," 
he  reassured  her.  "I've  seen  this  all  before,  you 
know  .  .  .  abroad  and  in  New  York.  Not  pre 
cisely  this  act,  but  something  along  the  same  lines." 

"I  almost  missed  placing  Nijinsky,"  she  hesi 
tated.  ' '  It  was  all  rather  mystical  and  vague.  .  .  . 
And  those  subdued  lights.  ...  I  wish  I  could  see 
it  all  again,  now  that  I've  caught  my  breath. 
It  ...  it  rather  .  .  ." 

"Dazzles  one,"  supplemented  Stillman,  leaning 
nearer  and  nearer. 

A  tremor  ran  through  her  and  he  realized  with 
a  start  that  his  breath  was  falling  heavily  upon 
her  bare  neck.  He  drew  back.  Mrs.  Forsythe 
had  stopped  in  a  casual  survey  of  the  house  to  fix 
upon  an  object  of  interest.  She  dropped  the 
glasses  into  her  lap  as  she  turned  toward  Stillman: 

"Who  can  that  be,  down  there  in  the  lower  box, 
staring  so  at  us?"  she  asked,  indicating  the  position 
with  an  exaggerated  glance. 

Stillman  stood  up. 

"The  man  with  the  bald  head?"  he  heard  Claire 
volunteer.  "Why,  that  is  Mr.  Flint — Mr.  Sawyer 
Flint." 

156 


THE   BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  caught  Mrs.  Forsythe 
drawling  in  a  tone  of  self-confessed  stupidity. 
"Anybody  ought  to  know  him." 

"Or  his  wife,"  broke  in  Edington.  "One  can't 
miss  her.  .  .  .  Now,  she's  getting  the  habit.  I  de 
clare  everybody  seems  to  be  interested.  I  guess 
it's  you,  Miss  Robson.  You  must  be  the  attrac 
tion." 

"The  orchestra  has  come  back,"  Stillman  an 
nounced,  deliberately.  "What's  next?" 

"'Papillons,'  a  ballet  in  one  act,"  Edington  called 
out,  reading  from  his  program. 

"Music  by  Robert  Schumann,"  supplemented 
Mrs.  Forsythe. 

"Ah,  now  we  shall  see  the  wonderful  Bolm!" 
Stillman  said  to  Claire.  "They  say  he's  the  finest 
pantomimist  on  the  stage."  She  turned  slightly 
toward  him  with  a  movement  of  appeal.  "What 
is  it?"  he  whispered. 

"Just  Flint,"  she  answered,  grasping  his  wrist 
in  a  swift,  backward  gesture.  "He  keeps  on 
staring." 

"What?     Shall  we  change  places?" 

"No.  That  would  be  too  .  .  .  It's  no  matter. 
What  did  you  say  the  star's  name  was?  .  .  .  There, 
the  curtain  is  going  up!" 

Stillman  fell  back,  but  as  he  did  so  he  took  a 
sweeping  survey  of  the  lower  box.  Flint  was  still 
staring,  and  his  wife  was  doing  a  great  deal  of 
vehement  talking  and  head-shaking  to  the  other 
women  sharing  their  hospitality. 

" l Papillons"  proved  more  in  the  conventional 
manner  and  it  was  charmingly  danced  by  a  score  of 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

pretty  girls  in  early-eighteenth-century  costume, 
and  wonderfully  acted  by  Bolm  in  the  character 
of  Pierrot.  The  audience  warmed  unmistakably 
at  this  number,  and,  the  draughts  somewhat  sub 
siding,  a  few  venturesome  ladies  decided  to  shed 
their  wraps.  Chatter  became  more  general  and 
less  controversial;  the  house  began  to  look  about, 
taking  note  of  itself,  assuming  the  critical  airs  of  a 
peacock  staring  at  its  own  reflection.  Opera- 
glasses  circled  the  occupants  of  the  boxes,  and 
Stillman  tried  to  single  out  all  those  who  let  their 
gaze  linger  an  insolent  length  of  time  upon  his 
party.  But  the  occupants  of  Flint's  box  kept  cast 
ing  furtive  glances  in  Claire's  direction,  and  Flint 
himself  continued  to  look  up  every  now  and  then, 
reaching  for  the  glasses,  which  always  seemed  in 
his  wife's  possession,  every  time  he  did  so.  Still 
man  felt  his  anger  rising.  He  knew  that  Claire 
was  annoyed,  but  she  had  recovered  her  poise  and 
began  to  talk  enthusiastically  about  the  second 
number. 

"I  understood  that  better."  She  smiled  at  Still 
man.  "I  know  the  music,  too.  That  always,  helps 
a  great  deal,  don't  you  think?  .  .  .  What  a  tragic 
face  Bolm  has!  I  thought  his  gesture  of  remorse 
at  having  broken  the  butterfly's  wing  wonderfully 
expressive.  Didn't  you?  The  costumes  were  quaint 
and  lovely.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am 
that  I  came!" 

"La  Princesse  Enchantee,"  a  duet  featuring  Ni- 
jinsky,  came  next,  and  a  gorgeous  spectacle  entitled 
"Cleopatra"  concluded  the  performance.  By  this 
time  the  audience  had  recovered  its  good-nature 

158 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

and  it  poured  forth  into  the  violent  shower  with 
much  animation  and  no  end  of  laughter.  Stillman 
had  ordered  his  car  for  eleven  o'clock,  but  through 
some  mischance  it  was  at  least  fifteen  minutes  late 
in  appearing.  This  meant  that  his  party  stood 
huddled  in  a  little  group  by  the  box-office  railing, 
and  every  one  who  passed  gave  them  either  casual 
or  pointed  glances.  Claire,  lacking  a  suitable  wrap, 
looked  rather  disconsolate  and  dowdy  in  a  long 
black  ulster.  Stillman  felt  annoyed.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  the  Flints  were  for  some  reason  in 
the  same  predicament.  They  had  swept  bravely 
past  to  their  intended  swift  departure,  only  to  find 
the  call  for  their  car  unanswered,  and  had  fallen 
back  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  foyer.  Over  the 
sea  of  faces  the  two  groups  stood  and  unconsciously 
glared  at  one  another — at  least  Stillman  glared  for 
his  party,  and  Flint,  sensing  his  friend's  antagonism, 
returned  the  compliment  with  added  insolence. 

Stillman 's  car  came  first. 

Mrs.  Forsythe,  starting  on  ahead  with  Edington, 
called  a  gay  farewell  across  the  now  empty  entrance- 
way  to  Mrs.  Flint.  The  latter  responded  with 
freezing  politeness.  Stillman  gave  Claire  his  arm. 
Flint  broke  into  a  laugh  and  turned  with  a  shrug 
to  his  wife. 

Stillman  heard  the  laugh  and  stopped  short. 
He  released  Claire's  arm  and  left  her  standing 
almost  in  the  drip  of  the  awnings  as  he  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  toward  Flint. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  quit  staring?"  he 
said  distinctly.  "Your  attentions  to  my  party 
have  been  extremely  annoying  all  evening." 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Flint  looked  at  first  stunned,  then  rather  fright 
ened.  Stillman  was  conscious  that  Edington  had 
come  up  to  him  and  was  pulling  at  his  coat  sleeve. 

Mrs.  Forsythe  and  Claire  were  just  stepping  into 
the  machine  when  the  two  men  followed.  Stillman 
took  his  place  beside  Claire  and  he  felt  the  trembling 
pressure  of  her  body  as  he  reached  over  and  slammed 
the  door.  Mrs.  Forsythe  made  no  comment.  .  .  . 
It  was  Edington  who  broke  the  silence. 

"That  Russian  stuff  may  be  art,"  he  broke  out, 
4 'but  I'll  take  a  George  M.  Cohan  rag- time  revue 
any  day!" 

Stillman 's  brush  with  Flint  was  only  the  begin 
ning  of  a  series  of  misadventures.  At  the  Cafe 
Chantant  it  happened  that  the  Flint  table  was  next 
to  the  Stillman  party.  Flint  had  recovered  his 
bravado  and  he  ordered  another  table  in  unmistak 
able  tones.  It  followed  that  every  one  in  the  room 
turned  their  attention  to  the  late-comers,  and  it 
was  not  long  after  Flint  had  been  escorted  in 
triumph  to  a  remote  location  that  Stillman  became 
aware  how  many  eyes  were  being  turned  at  him  and 
Claire  Robson. 

Presently  Lily  Condor  sang,  accompanied  by 
Miss  Menzies.  Stillman  knew  that  she  had  sighted 
them  with  her  usual  keen  eye,  but  he  also  saw  that 
she  was  determined  to  ignore  Claire's  friendly 
glances.  When  she  finished  she  swept  from  the 
improvised  platform  and  walked  deliberately  past 
Stillman,  seating  herself  at  the  table  which  the 
Flints  had  deserted.  Miss  Menzies  followed. 
Claire,  turning  after  them  with  a  wistful  look  of 

160 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

recognition,  bowed  to  Lily  Condor  as  she  took  her 
seat.  The  lady  stared  coldly  ahead  and  beckoned 
a  waiter.  Claire  blushed. 

"What  do  you  suppose,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
to  Stillman.  "Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  all  right 
.  .  .  my  deserting  Mrs.  Condor  to-night  ?  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  have  rung  her  up  myself.  But  you 
said  .  .  ." 

Stillman  ordered  wine.  Edington  chattered  flip 
pantly.  Dancing  commenced.  Stillman  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  said  to  Claire: 

"Shall  we  begin?" 

She  rose  in  answer,  and  they  swung  into  a  one- 
step.  He  could  feel  her  trembling  under  the  glances 
which  he  realized  were  coming  from  every  part  of 
the  room.  What  was  she  imagining,  he  wondered. 
As  they  circled  about  for  the  second  time,  Still 
man  became  conscious  that  some  one  was  walking 
across  the  floor  in  a  deliberate  attempt  to  waylay 
them.  He  stopped.  Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  stood  be 
fore  them.  She  had  a  deceitfully  sweet  smile  on 
her  lips  and  her  small  eyes  were  full  of  malicious 
determination. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Stillman  .  .  .  will  you  excuse 
me?"  she  said.  "I  want  a  word  with  Claire  .  .  . 
about  something  important.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't 
have  interrupted.  You'll  understand." 

He  released  Claire  and  she  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  dancing-space.  Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  turned  her 
back  upon  Stillman,  but  Claire's  face'  was  un 
screened  from  his  gaze.  Whatever  Mrs.  Ffinch- 
Brown  was  saying,  Claire  made  no  reply.  The 
younger  woman  paled  a  trifle,  Stillman  thought, 

161 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

but  otherwise  she  gave  no  sign.  She  returned  to 
Stillman  and  they  finished  the  dance.  As  he  held 
her  hand,  he  could  feel  her  pulse  beating  with  some 
thing  more  than  the  exertion  of  dancing. 

Edington  had  been  taking  a  turn  himself  with 
his  sister. 

''Did  you  know,"  he  volunteered  by  way  of 
conversation,  "that  there  had  been  a  devil  of  a  row 
among  the  women  running  this  show?  Sis  says 
that  she  understands  they  almost  pulled  one 
another's  hair  in  committee  over  some  performer 
that  Mrs.  Flint  didn't  think  desirable.  That 
woman  and  her  prejudices  are  a  scream!  I'll 
bet  it  was  some  pretty  girl  caught  making  eyes  at 
the  old  man.  Well,  here's  looking  at  you!" 

They  all  lifted  their  glasses.  Claire's  hand 
trembled. 

After  that  things  grew  more  and  more  confused. 
He  was  wondering  what  Mrs.  Ffinch-Brown  had 
found  to  say  to  her  niece,  and  staring  at  Claire, 
when  she  leaned  over  toward  him  with  a  gesture 
of  apology  and  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  break  up  your  party,  Mr. 
Stillman,  but  really  I  think  I  must  be  going.  My 
mother,  you  know.  .  .  .  She  wasn't  so  well  to-day. 
It  doesn't  seem  right  for  me  to  stay  here  enjoying 
myself  .  .  .  under  the  circumstances." 

It  had  ended  in  their  all  leaving,  Mrs.  Forsythe 
pleading  boredom  and  Edington  insisting  that  he 
had  planned  to  get  home  fairly  early  to  go  over  his 
draft  questionnaire. 

"When  you  see  me  again,  Miss  Robson,  it's  just 
possible  that  I'll  be  a  very  grand  party  in  uniform," 

162 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Edington  had  announced,  lightly,  as  they  rose  from 
the  table. 

In  the  coat-room  he  said  to  Stillman: 

/'You  ought  to  go  slow,  Ned.  .  .  .  That  Miss 
Robson  is  a  nice  girl." 

"Slow?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  .  .  .  She's  a  nice  girl,  I  tell 
you — a  damned  nice  girl!" 

Stillman  smiled  disagreeably.  .  .  .  He  remem 
bered  a  time  when  he  would  have  resented  E  ding- 
ton's  cryptic  insinuations,  but  now  he  merely 
smiled,  a  wide  smile,  which  a  betraying  mirror  du 
plicated  unpleasantly.  At  the  departure  of  Eding 
ton  and  his  sister  he  turned  to  Claire  significantly : 

"Are  you  really  ready  to  go  home?" 

She  turned  a  very  candid  gaze  upon  him.  "No, 
I  can't  say  that  I  am." 

"Where  shall  it  be,  then?" 

"Anywhere,"  she  answered,  almost  passionately. 
"Anywhere  at  all." 

"Let's  go  to  Tait's  .  .  .  first!" 

She  assented  indifferently,  and  presently  Tait's 
was  an  accomplished  pilgrimage.  They  had  chosen 
to  go  up-stairs  to  the  Pavo  Real.  At  this  hour 
there  was  still  a  fair  crush  going  through  the 
motions  of  dancing  upon  a  crowded  floor  and  the 
scene  assaulted  Stillman's  perceptions  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  flashy  squalor.  It  seemed  an  impossible 
place  in  which  to  indulge  a  mood,  but  he  suffered 
the  steward  to  find  them  a  small  table  in  a  far 
corner.  He  ordered  a  Benedictine  and  brandy 
for  himself,  Claire  compromised  on  a  creme  de 
menthe,  frappeed.  The  pale  green  of  this  last 

163 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

rather  innocuous  drink  shone  out  like  a  bit 
of  liquid  jade  against  the  black  of  Claire's  gown 
as  she  bent  over  for  a  momentary  sip.  To  Still- 
man  there  had  always  been  a  heavy-lidded  sug 
gestion  about  the  stilly-green  beauty  of  jade,  a 
beauty  glamorous  with  the  Orient,  white-heated 
as  noon  and  as  cold  as  the  yellow  glances  of  the 
moon.  And,  sitting  there,  he  remembered  the 
family  tradition  of  a  Stillman  in  the  days  when  the 
first  ships  had  come  from  China,  their  holds  burst 
ing  with  strange  treasures  and  the  haunting  odors 
of  sandalwood,  a  Stillman  who  brought  a  slave-girl 
back  to  affront  and  shock  the  staid  provincials  of 
his  native  town.  .  .  .  Presently  the  green  liquid 
was  gone  and  only  the  cool,  white  trickle  of  melting 
ice  remained  in  the  tiny  glass  opposite  his.  Claire 
moved  this  symbol  of  spent  delights  to  one  side. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  she  said,  calmly,  "why 
I  left  the  Palace  Hotel  to-night." 

He  was  not  sure. 

1  'My  aunt  asked  me  to  leave.  .  .  .  She  was  very 
polite  about  it  ...  and  very  cutting.  It  appears 
I'm  not  quite  their  sort." 

"No?"  Stillman  found  himself  laughing  uneasily. 
"How  gratified  you  must  be!" 

She  put  out  a  hand  across  the  table,  laying  it 
lightly  on  his  arm. 

"Listen.  It's  really  nothing  to  be  flippant  about. 
.  .  .  Not  that  I  care,  in  a  way.  But  really,  you 
know,  you  should  have  told  me  about — about  that 
little  arrangement  with  Mrs.  Condor." 

"Ah,  then  they  dragged  that  in,  too!"  escaped 
him.  "Your  aunt  must  be  a  rapid  talker!" 

164 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  take  long  to  cover  the  ground 
when  one  female  relation  decides  to  be  nasty  to 
another.  .  .  .  And,  then,  I'm  not  quite  a  fool 
— now.  .  .  .  Understand,  I'm  not  blaming  you 
.  .  .  but  it  would  have  been  fairer  if  I  had 
known." 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "Would  you,  in 
that  case,  have  ..." 

"It's  possible,"  she  broke  in  suddenly.  "Of 
course  I've  suspected  something  from  the  first  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  well,  as  a  matter  of  fact  ..."  She 
shrugged  and  reached  again  for  her  frappe,  sliding 
a  cherry  from  the  crumpled  straw,  drooping  over 
the  glass's  rim,  toward  her  mouth.  Stillman  found 
the  gesture  charming,  but  he  was  not  sure  whether 
her  answer  suited  him  or  not.  Of  course,  she  had 
seen  through  and  accepted  the  transparencies  of 
his  first  business  ruse.  But  she  also  had  subtly 
urged  its  justification.  In  this  case  ...  In  other 
words,  she  might  accept  gratuities  under  pressure! 
He  felt  that  he  was  narrowing  his  spiritual  eyes  as 
he  watched  her  cutting  the  bright  red  of  the  cherry 
with  her  white  lips. 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  suddenly,  touching  the 
soft  ice  in  the  glass  before  her  with  a  shrinking  finger, 
"aside  from  everything  else,  what  you  planned  to 
night  was  stupid.  .  .  .  How  could  you  have  im 
agined  that  I  cared." 

"That  you  cared !"  He  felt  that  he  was  laughing 
with  sneering  bitterness.  "Do  you  always  think 
of  yourself?  How  about  me?  What  if  I  cared? 
It's  possible,  you  know — just  possible!" 

She  brought  her  hands  suddenly  up  in  a  move- 

165 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ment  of  clasped  defense.  He  hung  on  her  reply 
with  white-lipped  eagerness. 

"Possible?  ..."  she  echoed.  "They  say  any 
thing  is  possible,  but  .  .  .  somehow  men  ..." 

She  threw  him  a  glance  of  thinly  veiled  mockery. 
His  tension  relaxed.  She  had  merely  parried  the 
blow  and  he  felt  disappointed. 

"I  realize  now,"  she  went  on,  "what  a  frightful 
nuisance  I've  been.  .  .  .  The  first  time  we  met  .  .  . 
I  was  in  trouble  then,  I  remember.  That  sort  of 
thing  grows  to  be  a  habit.  .  .  .  You  meant  it  for 
the  best,  of  course,  but  this  time  you  pushed  me 
in  pretty  far  ...  I  mean  into  your  debt.  I  wish 
I  knew  how  I  could  repay  you." 

"I'm  willing  to  accept  a  deferred  payment,"  he 
chaffed.  "I'll  take  your  note.  ...  I'm  very  pa 
tient  at  waiting." 

She  looked  at  him  clearly,  almost  too  clearly, 
as  if  in  one  flashing  moment  she  saw  behind  the 
mask  of  his  banter.  .  .  .  He  began  to  wonder  .  .  . 
had  he  hoped  to  have  her  flinch,  recoil,  or  was  this 
cool  calm  more  acceptable? 

"I  see,"  she  was  saying,  "you're  determined  to 
plunge  me  in  deeper  and  deeper,  until  one  day  .  .  . 
well,  one  day  I'll  be  a  bankrupt,  won't  I?" 

He  leaned  across  the  trivial  width  of  the  table 
and  he  put  two  burning  hands  upon  her  icy-cold 
fingers.  "Ah,  but  think  how  rich  I  shall  be!" 

She  said  nothing.  She  did  not  even  draw  back 
from  his  scorching  touch.  But  this  time  she 
lowered  her  eyes,  twisting  in  her  left  hand  the 
crumpled  straw  divested  of  its  gaudy  sweetmeat. 
.  .  .  She  was  a  tired  woman,  he  could  see  that 

166 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

plainly — a  tired  woman  .  .  .  considering.  And  he 
was  not  even  moved  to  pity. 

"Come,"  he  said,  roughly.  " Let's  get  out  of 
this  ghastly  hole." 

She  rose  with  a  fluttering  movement  that  gave 
him  the  impression  of  a  trapped  bird.  They  made 
their  way  out  in  silence.  A  great  primitive  eager 
ness  struck  down  every  acquired  virtue  within  him. 
He  put  his  hand  at  her  elbow  and  held  it  tight. 
He  felt  that  she  had  clenched  her  fist. 

In  the  doorway  she  shrank  back  suddenly  as  he 
stood  waiting  to  lift  her  into  the  flaming  yellow 
taxi  answering  their  call.  He  retraced  his  steps. 

"What  ...  Are  you  ill?" 

"No  ...  for  the  moment  I  thought  I  saw  .  .  . 
Really  it's  of  no  consequence!" 

He  narrowed  his  eyes  upon  her.  She  was  lying 
.  .  .  it  was  of  consequence!  He  felt  very  ugly. 
.  .  .  A  man  had  just  brushed  past  and  now  he 
stood  with  a  finger  upon  the  elevator  bell,  waiting. 

Claire  darted  out  and  gained  the  taxi.  .  .  .  Still- 
man  followed.  As  he  swung  open  the  door  for 
her  he  felt  her  almost  leap  into  its  depths.  Once 
inside,  she  faced  him,  barring  the  eagerness  of  his 
entrance  with  a  defiant  arm. 

"Go  away!"  she  cried,  in  a  sudden  terror.  "Go 
away!  Can't  you  see?  ...  It's  all  over,  I  tell  you!" 

"All  over?"     He  squared  himself  doggedly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  thickly.  "Go  away.  .  .  .  You 
had  better  go  ...  to  ...  to  your  wife!1' 

He  fell  back  as  if  she  had  given  him  a  sharp  push. 
His  hat  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  He  stooped  to 
pick  it  up.  He  heard  the  door  slam  and  saw  the 

167 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

taxi  shoot  forward  into  the  sadly  glamorous  beauty 
of  the  night.  .  .  .  He  was  alone! 

He  strode  back  into  the  cafe  entrance.  The 
man  was  still  waiting  before  the  door  of  the  tardy 
elevator.  Stillman  went  up  and  put  an  insinu 
ating  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  The  man  turned. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Stillman  stammered. 
"I  thought  you  were  ...  I  see  I  am  mistaken. 
Pray  forgive  me!" 

A  flash  of  white  teeth  answered  Stillman 's 
apology.  The  door  of  the  elevator  opened.  The 
stranger  entered. 

Stillman  turned  away.  Where  had  he  seen  that 
face  before?  Where?  ...  Oh  yes,  the  Serbian 
who  had  .  .  . 

He  felt  cold.  .  .  .  The  whole  thing  was  absurd. 
Yet,  she  had  seen  some  one  who  .  .  .  He  lit  a 
cigarette.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  laughed  a  smothered, 
choking,  unpleasant  laugh. 

He  decided  to  go  home. 


The  Blood  Red  Dawn 

«..— ^^— — ^— 

Book  II 


CHAPTER  1 

"TT  ain't  exactly  what  you  would  call  a  society 

*  job,  Robson,  but  it  will  pay  the  milkman  and 
the  baker,  and  that's  something." 

Nellie  Whitehead  kicked  off  a  shoe  that  she  had 
unbuttoned,  resting  her  unshod  foot  upon  a  chair 
as  she  sighed  with  luxurious  satisfaction. 

Claire  Robson  began  to  draw  down  the  shades. 
A  cold  March  rain  was  falling  outside  and  Claire 
felt  that  her  shabby  living-room  seemed  less  bleak 
with  the  night  shut  out.  For  the  past  three  weeks 
Nellie  Whitehead  had  been  the  only  point  of  con 
tact  with  the  outside  world  and  Claire  had  grown 
to  listen  eagerly  for  the  three  quick  rings  at  the 
door-bell  which  announced  her  solitary  visitor. 
There  was  something  about  Nellie  Whitehead  which 
usually  revived  Claire's  drooping  spirits  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  but  to-night  she  felt  no  re 
action  to  the  slightly  acrid  optimism  of  her  friend. 

"A  job?"  Claire  questioned,  increduously,  seat 
ing  herself.  "I'm  ready  for  anything  in  reason. 
Only  .  .  .  Well,  the  truth  is,  the  Finnegans  are 
moving.  I  heard  about  it  to-day.  I'll  have  to  hire 
some  one  to  look  after  mother,  and  ..."  Her 
hands  lifted  and  dropped  in  hopeless  resignation. 

"It  ain't  an  office  job,"  pursued  Miss  Whitehead; 
171 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"it's  playing  the  piano.  You  know  that  little 
friend  I  told  you  about  who  sings  at  Tait's?  .  .  . 
Well,  she  had  an  offer  to  sing  in  the  same  place. 
But  of  course  she's  in  pretty  soft  where  she  is." 

Nellie  Whitehead  was  not  given  to  indirectness, 
and  Claire  had  a  feeling  that  for  some  reason  her 
friend  was  finding  it  advisable  to  lead  up  to  her 
project  rather  cautiously. 

"I'm  ready  for  anything,"  she  repeated. 

Nellie  Whitehead  settled  back  comfortably.  "I 
suppose  I  might  just  as  well  quit  beating  around 
the  bush.  You  see,  it  isn't  such  a  snap  for  the  real 
professional  .  .  .  otherwise  it  wouldn't  be  going 
begging.  It's  .  .  .  it's  in  a  Greek  cafe  on  Third 
Street." 

A  Greek  cafe  on  Third  Street!  Claire  Robson 
stared  in  amazement  at  her  friend.  For  a  moment 
she  had  a  feeling  that  Nellie  Whitehead  must  be 
joking.  Claire  Robson  had  heard  of  such  places. 
Professional  reformers  always  found  them  a  peren 
nial  source  of  exploitation  when  the  vice  crop  in 
other  quarters  failed,  and  every  now  and  then  the 
newspapers  discovered,  to  their  horror,  that  young 
and  tender  girls  were  being  hired  to  serve  Turkish 
coffee  and  almond  syrup  to  the  patrons  of  the  Greek 
coffee-houses.  Indeed,  Claire  had  once  listened 
to  an  eager  young  woman  describe  for  the  young 
people's  section  of  the  Home  Missionary  Society 
all  the  pitfalls  to  the  weaker  sex  which  lurked  in 
this  godless  section  of  the  community  where 
men  drank  thick  coffee  and  smoked  cigarettes  and 
even  kissed  pretty  girls  on  provocation.  Claire 
had  never  been  prone  to  pass  snap  judgment,  but 

173 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  very  word  Greek  had  an  outlandish  sound,  and 
it  seemed  quite  possible  that  everything  that  had 
been  said  about  the  evils  of  the  Greek  quarter  must 
have  some  basis.  Even  the  term  Greek  labor 
which  she  chanced  upon  again  and  again  in  the  daily 
news  was  full  of  sinister  suggestion.  And  she  had 
a  flashing  picture  of  this  cafe  in  search  of  a  pianist 
crowded  with  heavily-booted,  sweating  humanity 
fresh  from  construction-camps  and  fields. 

"Well  ...  I  don't  know,"  she  finally  faltered. 
"I  fancy  they  won't  find  my  playing  to  their  taste." 

Nellie  Whitehead  sat  up  challengingly.  "You 
mean  you  don't  find  playing  in  a  Greek  cafe  to  your 
taste.  .  .  .  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  not  keen  about 
suggesting  such  a  thing  to  you.  But  lots  of  girls 
make  a  living  that  way,  and  even  if  they  don't 
move  in  select  circles  they're  pretty  human." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  cafe  side  of  it,"  Claire  protested; 
"it's  the  ...  the  ..  ." 

"The  Greek  side  of  it,  eh?  Well,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  Robson,  I  guess  a  Greek  cafe  ain't  any  worse 
than  what  my  little  friend  calls  'one  of  them  gilded 
vice-cages.  .  .  .'  And  even  at  that,  any  girl  who 
lasted  six  weeks  in  the  private  office  of  Sawyer 
Flint,  Esquire,  has  run  up  against  as  much  fancy 
roller-skating  as  she's  apt  to.  If  you  managed  to 
keep  your  balance  on  a  slippery  floor  like  that, 
I  guess  you'll  be  good  for  a  spin  on  the  asphalt 
pavement  any  day  in  the  week.  It  may  be  a  little 
bit  rougher,  but  it  ain't  a  bit  more  dangerous.  In 
fact,  I  shouldn't  wonder  whether  there  wasn't  a 
good  deal  more  elbow  room." 

Nellie  Whitehead  leaned  back  again  and  closed 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

her  eyes.  Claire  was  silent.  There  was  no  logi 
cal  answer  to  her  friend's  shrewd  estimate,  but 
prejudice  dies  hard  and  Claire  was  still  in  the  bond 
age  of  a  vague  distrust  for  the  unknown. 

"Good  Lord!  I  know  how  you  feel!"  Miss  White- 
head  went  on  with  a  sudden  genial  air  of  under 
standing.  ' '  I  remember  when  I  had  my  first  Italian 
dinner  at  Lombardi's.  I  thought  the  man  who 
invited  me  had  a  grudge  against  my  appetite. 
Honest,  in  those  days  if  you  mentioned  spaghetti 
most  folks  thought  you  were  talking  about  a  deadly 
disease.  And  now  ..."  Nellie  Whitehead  fin 
ished  with  an  eloquent  and  descriptive  sweep  of 
hands. 

Claire  put  a  thoughtful  finger  to  her  lips  and  was 
silent.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  where  she 
worked  or  what  she  did?  She  felt  a  dangerous 
indifference,  a  negative  contempt  for  life. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  she  said,  finally,  with  a 
sudden  hardening  of  voice  that  made  Nellie  White- 
head  look  up  quickly.  "One  can  get  accustomed 
to  almost  anything.  Where  did  you  say  the  cafe 
was?" 

Claire  went  next  morning  before  nine  o'clock 
to  look  up  the  Greek  cafe  on  Third  Street.  It 
was  a  raw,  blustering,  traditional  March  day,  and 
she  pulled  her  shabby  cloak  about  her  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  shut  out  a  chill  which  seemed  somehow 
to  be  clutching  at  her  very  heart.  It  was  years 
since  she  had  ventured  south  of  Market,  and  she 
was  surprised  to  find  its  old  atmosphere  quite  van 
ished.  She  remembered  the  section  of  the  town 

174 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

beyond  Mission  Street  as  a  squalid  mass  of  tumble 
down  houses  out  of  which  issued  a  perennial  stream 
of  shawl-cloaked  women  carrying  empty  white 
pitchers  to  the  nearest  corner  grocery  and  retracing 
their  steps  with  the  pitchers  half  hidden  in  the  folds 
of  the  aforesaid  shawls,  from  which  dripped  be 
traying  flecks  of  foam.  Third  Street  was  now  by 
no  means  an  opulent  thoroughfare,  but  it  had  the 
virtue  of  a  certain  cheap  newness.  The  frowsy 
women  were  no  more.  It  was  undeniably  a  street 
of  men,  stretching  out  in  a  succession  of  lodging- 
houses,  saloons,  and  cheap  eating-places.  Past 
Howard  Street  the  Greek  coffee-houses  began. 
Claire  looked  in  at  them  curiously.  In  the  drowse 
of  morning  they  seemed  very  lifeless  and  still. 
She  noted,  as  she  passed,  the  prim  rows  of  marble- 
topped  tables  with  their  old-fashioned  call-bells 
for  signaling  the  waiter,  the  window-plants  turning 
sickly  green  faces  toward  the  sun,  the  line  of  Ori 
ental  water-pipes  setting  in  their  racks  over  the 
coffee-shelves.  One  cafe  seemed  very  much  like 
another,  and  in  spite  of  the  extreme  simplicity  of 
their  equipment  they  contrived  to  shed  an  air 
fascinating  and  strange. 

Claire  hurried  on,  eager  to  be  through  with  the 
suspense  of  this  plunge  into  bizarre  life  which  she 
could  not  realize  would  ever  be  her  portion.  She 
was  carrying  the  whole  thing  through  in  a  spirit 
of  bravado,  and  she  was  conscious  that  her  hopes 
leaned  unmistakably  toward  finding  the  position 
filled  or  her  qualifications  not  up  to  the  mark. 
Her  glimpses  into  the  coffee-houses  led  her  to  expect 
that  the  cafe  she  was  in  search  of  might  be  some 

i7S 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

such  place.  She  was  surprised  then  to  come  upon 
a  totally  different  institution  in  the  shape  of  what 
appeared  to  be  a  saloon  as  she  halted  before  the 
number  that  corresponded  to  the  address  on  the 
card  she  was  carrying.  Cafe  Ithaca — she  read 
the  sign  twice  before  venturing  through  the  swinging 
doors. 

A  long  mahogany-colored  bar  ran  the  full  length 
of  the  room;  small  tables  fully  set  for  a  meal  filled 
the  rest  of  the  floor  space.  Claire  decided  at  once 
upon  retreat.  But  suddenly  at  the  back  of  the 
room  a  green  curtain  parted  and  a  man  came  toward 
her.  He  had  a  pale,  round  face  and  a  mass  of 
black  hair  that  reminded  Claire  of  pictures  of  John 
the  Baptist. 

"I  am  looking  for  the  proprietor,"  Claire  began, 
desperately. 

The  man  brought  his  right  hand  toward  his 
heart,  letting  his  head  fall  in  salutation.  Claire 
took  courage. 

"I  understand  ...  it  seems  you  are  looking 
for  a  pianist."  The  man  stared  and  bowed  again. 
"To  play,  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  ...  I  play?" 
She  began  instinctively  to  make  the  proper  de 
scriptive  motions  with  her  fingers. 

"Ah,  yes!  Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you!"  The 
man  continued  to  keep  his  hand  over  his  heart 
and  to  bow  deeply. 

The  sound  of  hammering  floated  from  the  space 
screened  by  the  green  curtains.  The  man  called 
to  some  one.  A  waiter  appeared.  The  two  con 
versed  long  and  volubly.  Finally  the  waiter,  turn 
ing  to  Claire,  said,  in  excellent  English: 

176 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Mr.  Lycurgus  does  not  understand  very  well. 
What  is  it  you  want?" 

"I  hear  he  is  looking  for  a  pianist,"  Claire  re 
turned. 

"Oh  yes.     In  the  back  .  .  .  the  piano  is  there." 

The  three  passed  through  the  screened  opening 
and  Claire  found  herself  in  a  huge  room  still  in  the 
process  of  being  put  into  shape  as  a  cafe  in  the 
American  fashion. 

"Mr.  Lycurgus,"  the  waiter  explained  to  Claire, 
"is  fixing  up  a  swell  place  here.  He  bought  a  piano 
yesterday.  After  a  while,  when  he  gets  a  permit, 
we  shall  have  dancing.  We  want  now  somebody 
to  play  .  .  .  from  six  o'clock  to  twelve." 

Claire  sat  down  to  the  piano.  It  was  new  and  had 
a  good  tone.  She  ran  over  a  simple  negro  melody. 
The  proprietor  smiled  and  bowed  again.  "Thank 
you!  Thank  you!"  he  kept  repeating.  Then  he 
and  the  waiter  began  to  talk  again.  Claire  waited. 
.  .  .  She  had  to  admit  that  the  prospects  were  not 
so  terrible.  And  she  rather  liked  Mr.  Lycurgus 
with  his  sweeping  and  naive  bows  and  his  thick 
clustering  black  hair. 

Finally  the  waiter  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"Do  you  sing?" 

"Yes  ...  a  little."  And  she  made  good  her 
words  with  a  sentimental  trifle  that  her  mother  had 
taught  her  years  ago. 

The  waiter  and  the  proprietor  talked  again. 

"He  thinks  you  will  do,  and  he  will  pay  you 
twenty  dollars  a  week,"  the  waiter  finally  an 
nounced. 

Claire  rose  from  the  piano  stool. 
177 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you!"  said  the  pro 
prietor. 

"Thank  you''  replied  Claire,  at  a  loss  for  any 
thing  better  to  say. 

"Can  you  begin  to-night?" 

Claire  hesitated.     "Yes,"  she  answered. 

And  as  she  said  it  she  had  a  feeling  that  she 
suddenly  had  been  transported  miles  from  all  the 
familiar  scenes  and  faces  that  had  previously  made 
up  her  life. 

She  returned  to  the  cafe  promptly  at  six  o'clock. 
But  on  this  first  night  there  was  really  nothing  to 
do.  The  carpenters  were  still  busily  laying  a  tiny 
hardwood  dancing-floor  and  a  smell  of  fresh  paint 
enveloped  everything.  Claire  contented  herself 
with  sitting  idly  at  the  piano  and  peering  through 
the  green-curtained  entrance  into  the  saloon.  The 
situation  was  still  an  extraordinary  one  for  her  and 
she  had  not  yet  grasped  it.  The  tables  in  the  sa 
loon  proper  were  crowded  with  diners,  all  men, 
and  a  huge  orchestrion  was  grinding  out  strange 
and  unfamiliar  melodies.  She  was  not  near  enough 
to  get  any  estimate  of  the  diners  as  individuals, 
but  she  had  to  confess  that  the  composite  impres 
sion  they  made  was  far  from  unpleasant.  They 
ate  frankly  and  with  despatch  as  men  in  groups, 
undisturbed  by  feminine  companionship,  do  the 
world  over.  She  noticed  two  things  particularly — 
they  all  had  extraordinary  thick  black  hair  and 
their  white  teeth  flashed  pleasantly  when  they 
smiled. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  proprietor  came  in  and  stood 
178 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

before  her.  The  waiter  was  behind  him.  Mr. 
Lycurgus  in  halting  English  was  inviting  her  to 
have  something  to  eat.  She  was  not  hungry, 
but  she  decided  to  see  what  sort  of  cheer  the  Cafe 
Ithaca  provided. 

The  waiter  cleared  away  some  tools  which  the 
workmen  had  scattered  on  a  side-table  and  began 
to  lay  the  cloth.  Claire  sat  down  and  Mr.  Lycurgus 
took  a  place  opposite  her.  Anchovies  and  ripe 
olives  with  a  bitter  but  fascinating  taste  came  first, 
followed  by  a  delicious  soup  flavored  with  lemon. 
Claire  began  to  feel  hungry.  The  waiter  explained 
the  ingredients  of  the  soup  to  her  as  she  was  fin 
ishing  the  last  mouthful. 

"Chicken  broth  and  the  white  of  egg  with  paste 
and  a  dash  of  lemon,"  he  announced.  Then  he 
set  a  huge  portion  of  boiled  lamb  before  her, 
stewed  up  with  rice  and  lettuce  leaves.  It  was  plain 
that  they  were  providing  something  extra  in  the 
way  of  fare  for  her. 

Mr.  Lycurgus,  who  had  eaten  earlier  in  the 
evening,  seemed  to  be  keeping  her  company  from 
a  sense  of  naive  and  charming  hospitality.  Claire 
tried  to  think  of  what  to  say  to  him.  Finally  she 
hit  upon  a  subject. 

"What  part  of  Greece  do  you  come  from?"  she 
asked. 

He  was  uncertain  as  to  her  question,  but  the 
waiter  translated  it  quickly.  Mr.  Lycurgus  began 
to  talk.  Claire  did  not  understand  one-half  of 
what  he  was  saying,  but  she  was  conscious  that 
she  had  struck  the  proper  note.  He  had  come 
from  Athens,  he  explained  to  her,  and  immediately 

179 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

he  launched  into  lyrical  praise  of  his  native  city. 
X^laire  assumed  an  air  of  interest,  asked  more 
questions.  The  waiter  brought  salad,  and  fried 
chicken,  and  a  curd  cheese,  and  finally  a  cup  of 
thick  Turkish  coffee.  Mr.  Lycurgus  was  called 
outside  to  join  some  patrons  in  a  drink.  He  left 
Claire  with  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  his  head 
thrown  forward  in  a  suggestion  of  perfect  sur 
render  that  was  almost  Oriental.  The  waiter  also 
grew  friendly.  It  appeared  that  he  came  from  the 
mountain  districts  of  Greece — from  shepherd  stock. 
He  described  the  Greek  mountains  to  her. 

"Birds  and  flowers  and  sweet  smells!"  he  told 
her.  He  had  been  a  bootblack  in  New  York,  at 
first.  But  he  liked  San  Francisco  better.  He 
talked  about  America  and  democracy. 

"We  Greeks,  you  understand,  we  come  from  a 
free  people."  And  he  began  to  revive  the  glories 
of  ancient  Greece.  It  was  plain  to  Claire  that 
these  people  were  living  in  retrospection,  harking 
back  to  a  racial  past  very  much  in  the  fashion  of 
her  mother  trying  to  gather  warmth  from  the  mem 
ory  of  a  former  opulence. 

Claire  rose  from  the  table,  amazed  at  the  extent 
of  the  meal  which  she  had  been  tempted  to  eat. 
But  it  had  all  been  so  frank  and  friendly  and  lack 
ing  any  savor  of  condescension.  She  did  not  make 
the  mistake  of  fancying  that  just  this  thing  would 
be  a  regular  occurrence,  but  there  was  a  certain 
beauty  about  the  humanness  of  this  welcome  that 
had  been  given  her,  as  if  the  rite  of  breaking  bread 
had  suddenly  made  her  a  part  of  a  large  family. 

Since  there  was  nothing  to  do,  she  left  early, 
1 80 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

at  ten  o'clock.  The  waiter  followed  her  to  the 
door. 

"In  a  day  or  two  things  will  be  different,"  he 
assured  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  asked. 

4 '  Demetrio — the  same  as  Jimmy. ' '  He  threw  back 
his  head,  smiling. 

She  said  good  night  and  started  off.  Third  Street 
was  crowded.  There  was  scarcely  a  woman  in 
sight.  Men,  men  everywhere.  And  yet  she  felt 
not  the  slightest  fear.  All  evening  she  had  felt 
detached,  remote,  cut  off  from  the  past,  as  one  is 
cut  off  from  a  familiar  view  by  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
road.  But  as  she  swung  into  Market  Street  and 
crossed  over  to  the  north  side  again  the  chill  of 
reality  swept  over  her.  She  was  coming  back  to 
familiar  scenes,  familiar  problems,  familiar  griefs. 
She  began  to  think  about  her  mother's  hopeless 
condition,  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Finnegan  was  pre 
paring  to  move  away. 

"She's  tired  of  having  mother  on  her  hands  so 
often,"  flashed  through  Claire's  mind.  "She's 
moving  to  get  out  of  it  gracefully.  Why  did  I  per 
mit  such  a  thing?" 

Her  cheeks  burned  with  the  shame  of  it.  She 
would  have  to  talk  to  Nellie  Whitehead  about  get 
ting  some  one  to  come  in  and  sit  with  her  mother 
at  night.  Nellie  Whitehead  would  know  of  some 
body  ;  she  always  was  equal  to  any  emergency.  .  .  . 
She  needed  to  have  her  shoes  resoled,  and  her 
gloves  were  in  a  dreadful  state.  Well,  fortunately, 
she  would  not  have  to  keep  up  much  of  an  ap 
pearance  now.  Twenty  dollars  a  week — eighty 

181 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

dollars  a  month — she  began  to  lay  out  plans  for 
its  expenditure.  She  owed  two  months  to  the 
butcher,  and  even  the  grocery  bill  had  been  long 
overdue.  And  there  was  Nellie  Whitehead — she 
should  have  paid  Nellie  back.  But  there  seemed 
always  to  have  been  something  else  more  pressing. 
She  thought  all  these  things  out  swiftly,  darting 
from  one  subject  to  another  in  a  feverish  anxiety 
to  fill  her  mind  with  food  for  impersonal  thought. 

When  she  got  home  she  found  a  letter  awaiting 
her.  It  bore  a  special-delivery  stamp  and  the  en 
velope  was  in  Stillman's  handwriting.  She  felt 
suddenly  weak  and  she  sat  down.  .  .  .  She  sat 
staring  at  the  envelope  a  long  time  before  she  gath 
ered  courage  to  open  it.  When  she  did,  a  thin  blue 
slip  of  paper  fluttered  out.  It  was  a  check  for 
twenty  dollars,  payment  for  the  last  week  she  had' 
spent  in  Stillman's  service.  There  was  no  other 
word  from  him,  just  this  brief  symbol  of  what  his 
decision  was  in  regard  to  her. 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  She  did  not  move,  she  stood 
staring  ahead.  .  .  . 

Presently  she  heard  her  mother  call.  She  started 
guiltily. 

"Wliat  am  I  wasting  time  here  for?"  she  asked 
herself,  with  a  strange  fierceness.  She  saw  Still 
man's  blue  check  lying  on  the  table.  She  caught 
it  up  and  tore  it  into  bits. 

Her  mother's  voice  sounded  again,  this  time 
querulously. 

Claire  Robson  pushed  her  sagging  hair  from  her 
forehead  and  went  into  her  mother's  room. 


182 


CHAPTER  II 

MRS.  FINNEGAN  moved  on  the  first  of  April. 
Claire,  having  by  this  time  decided  that 
she  was  more  or  less  committed  to  her  new  life,  got 
track  of  a  Miss  Proll,  a  middle-aged  seamstress, 
who  went  out  by  the  day,  to  come  and  occupy  the 
little  hall  bedroom,  so  that  Mrs.  Robson  was  no 
longer  alone  in  the  house  nights. 

Claire  had  been  ten  days  at  the  Cafe  Ithaca  and 
the  experiment  was  losing  its  strangeness.  There 
had  been  very  little  piano-playing  to  do.  The 
new  rooms  at  the  rear  of  the  saloon  were  an  experi 
ment  that  the  regular  patrons  of  the  cafe  had  not 
yet  accepted  enthusiastically,  and  the  looked-for 
patronage  from  the  bastard  American  bohemian- 
ism  was  still  a  matter  of  hope  and  conjecture.  The 
regular  diners  clung  rather  shyly  to  their  old 
quarters  opposite  the  bar,  and  Claire  had  to  be 
content  with  making  a  long-range  estimate  of 
them.  But  she  grew  more  and  more  friendly  with 
Jimmy,  and  even  Lycurgus  got  beyond  the  point 
of  clasping  his  right  hand  over  his  heart  every  time 
he  approached  her. 

Obviously  the  Cafe  Ithaca  was  not  one  of  the 
ordinary  Greek  cafes  that  vice-crusaders  railed 
against.  Claire  discovered  this  quite  early.  To 

183 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  superficial  observer  the  Ithaca  was  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  an  American  saloon,  and,  as  such,  was 
too  well  established  an  institution  to  merit  sensa 
tional  disclosures.  But  it  was  the  cafes  in  which 
the  men  of  the  quarter  gather  to  drink  coffee,  and 
almond  or  cherry  soda,  and  to  listen  to  "out 
landish"  music,  that  aroused  the  suspicion  of  Puri 
tans.  To  their  line  of  reasoning  Greeks  who  drank 
in  saloons  were  frankly  immoral;  those  who  hid 
behind  a  screen  of  sweetened  coffee  and  innocuous 
syrups  were  immoral  in  a  subtle  and  dangerous  way 
that  challenged  all  the  resources  of  virtue.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  spectacle  of  full-grown  men  in 
dulging  in  any  pleasure  so  innocent  as  coffee-drink 
ing  without  being  coerced  into  it  was  quite  too  much 
of  an  affront  for  those  who  won  virtue  only  at  the 
point  of  battle.  Indeed,  even  Claire  had  something 
of  this  same  distrust  as  she  nightly  passed  these 
masculine  forgathering  places  and  caught  glimpses 
through  the  unscreened  windows  of  men  dancing 
together  between  tables  with  strange  solemnity. 
She,  too,  had  her  suspicions,  very  much  in  the  man 
ner  of  an  adult  who  finds  an  unexplainable  childish 
silence  cause  for  distrust.  Her  training  and  her 
own  experiences  had  confirmed  her  in  the  faith 
that  males  either  singly  or  in  groups  were  not  to 
be  lightly  regarded.  But  she  was  willing  to  con 
cede  one  point  which  most  of  the  others  left  out — 
she  was  not  sure  that  she  saw  any  essential  differ 
ences  between  these  swarthy  males  who  found 
grenadine  syrup  or  coffee  to  their  taste  and  the  less 
vivid  masculine  bipeds  who  pretended  that  ice 
cream  and  layer  cake  was  an  exciting  experience. 

184 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

And  she  remembered  having  seen  the  same  side 
long  glances  directed  at  the  young  women  serving 
refreshments  at  a  church  social  that  she  saw  nightly 
cast  at  the  waitresses  who  placed  little  cups  of 
sweetened  coffee  upon  the  cold  marble-topped 
tables  of  the  Greek  cafes. 

It  was  in  her  midnight  walks  through  the  quarter 
that  Claire  got  the  rush  of  sudden  new  lights  and 
values.  Alone  on  the  streets  after  twelve  o'clock 
was  a  new  experience,  but  any  timidity  was  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  sense  of  personal  freedom  which 
she  seemed  to  achieve.  She  could  have  boarded 
a  car  almost  from  the  Ithaca's  doors,  and,  by  trans 
ferring,  arrived  at  her  Clay  Street  flat  without 
taking  more  than  a  dozen  steps;  but  on  the  first 
night  she  had  overlooked  this  possibility  and  the 
habit  of  walking  up  to  Market  Street  became  fixed. 
In  this  brief  flight  she  saw  not  only  men,  but  men 
of  every  conceivable  stamp  and  condition.  And 
it  struck  her  how  unified  these  masculine  types 
were,  how  little  they  differed  in  the  mass  from  men 
that  previously  she  had  seen  detached,  or  super 
ficially  divided,  from  their  kind  by  the  varied  in 
trusions  of  women.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that 
the  other  sex  presented  a  solid  front  which 
womankind  was  always  attempting  to  break 
through,  and  retreating  sooner  or  later,  according 
to  the  vigor  of  the  masculine  defense.  For  she  had  a 
sudden  conviction  that  each  woman  battled  singly 
and  alone,  but  that  men  somehow  braced  themselves 
collectively  for  the  struggle.  Men  were  not  really 
ever  vanquished — a  solitary  man  falling  by  the 
wayside  did  not  spell  defeat  for  the  main  body. 
13  '  185 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

But  women — somehow  women  were  always  routed, 
routed  as  a  whole  because  they  insisted  on  playing 
the  game  in  solitary  aloofness.  She  found  men 
presenting  this  same  unbroken  front  to  all  the  tilts 
of  fortune  and  women  as  consistently  attempting 
to  hold  every  trick  of  fate  at  bay  single-handed. 
But  what  she  could  not  determine  was  the  relative 
values  of  these  contrasting  attitudes,  which  was 
the  more  soul-stirring  performance. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  of  Claire's 
new  life,  a  handful  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca's  regular 
patrons,  wishing  to  indulge  in  a  little  celebration, 
ordered  a  table  laid  in  the  new  dining-room.  This 
broke  the  ice,  and  there  followed  no  end  of  dinners 
and  banquets  and  evening  suppers.  But  so  far  the 
patrons  were  confined  to  residents  of  the  Greek 
quarter,  and  it  puzzled  Claire  to  discover  that 
there  were  never  by  any  chance  women  present. 
She  questioned  Jimmy  about  this. 

"Greek  women  stay  home,"  he  replied,  emphati 
cally. 

Claire  had  begun  by  playing  simple  and  sprightly 
things  on  the  piano.  The  patrons  responded  by 
applauding  her  politely,  but  she  could  see  that  they 
were  really  not  finding  her  offerings  entertaining. 
When  the  wheezy  orchestrion  started  up  with  Greek 
airs  they  were  much  more  alert  and  appreciative. 
She  gave  an  ear  to  these  melodies,  and  one  night 
she  surprised  a  company  of  diners  by  picking  out 
the  national  anthem  on  the  piano.  The  result  was 
unexpected.  She  was  bombarded  by  a  shower  of 
silver  coins — mostly  half-dollar  pieces.  She  rose  in 
her  seat,  bowing  her  thanks  for  the  applause,  while 

186 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Jimmy  scrambled  after  the  coins  and  Lycurgus 
came  forward  with  his  hand  over  his  heart.  She 
drew  back  with  a  gesture  of  instinctive  refusal  as 
Jimmy  poured  the  money  upon  the  keyboard  of 
the  piano.  But  she  ended  by  accepting  it — there 
seemed  nothing  else  to  do. 

After  this  she  mastered  other  Greek  airs.  She 
learned  in  time  all  the  slow,  melancholy  melodies 
that  never  failed  to  set  the  feet  of  dancers  shuffling. 
And  upon  the  tiny  hardwood  floor  that  had  been 
laid  in  the  hope  of  luring  rag-time  patrons  to  the 
Cafe  Ithaca  there  was  nightly  a  handful  of  men 
moving  with  graceful  precision  in  the  steps  of  their 
ancient  folk-dances.  Jimmy,  smiling  his  satisfaction 
at  Claire,  would  lean  over  the  piano  and  say: 

"Look,  Miss  Robson!  Now  they  are  dancing 
an  old  shepherd  dance.  They  have  danced  it  so 
in  my  part  of  the  country  for  the  last  thousand 
years.  It  is  a  dance  of  greeting.  The  two  men 
have  not  seen  each  other  for  five  years." 

Thus  it  was  with  everything — symbols  running 
through  the  every-day  experiences  of  these  people 
like  a  thread  of  gold  through  the  woof  and  warp  of 
some  drab  garment.  They  were  a  people  not  only 
living  in  a  past,  but  carrying  this  past  with  them 
as  they  stormed  the  outposts  of  modern  life,  and 
for  all  their  naive  Christian  piety,  which  they  seemed 
to  practise  with  a  comfortable  emotional  fervor, 
they  had  retained  the  courage  to  meet  the  deposed 
gods  of  another  day  with  a  friendly  and  affectionate 
smile.  They  still  danced  the  old  pagan  dances  on 
feast-days  of  the  saints,  and  ranged  pictures  of  the 
gods  side  by  side  with  the  holy  icons  of  the  church. 

187 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  was  in  a  mood  to  appreciate  all  these 
strange  experiences;  they  removed  her  so  completely 
from  all  the  soul-crushing  memories  that  were  ever 
struggling  to  fasten  themselves  upon  her.  And 
every  night  when  the  street-car  crossed  over  to  the 
south  side  of  the  city  she  shed  her  cares  like  one 
dropping  a  dripping  coat  upon  the  threshold  of  a 
warm  room.  Between  the  hours  of  six  and  twelve 
she  gathered  courage  from  forgetfulness.  But, 
although  she  had  entered  more  or  less  gracefully 
into  the  demands  of  this  new  life,  there  were  times 
when  the  clutch  of  custom  still  laid  its  hand  upon 
her.  For  one  thing,  she  could  never  quite  get 
used  to  her  Sunday  night  appearance  at  the  cafe. 
This  setting  of  Sunday  as  a  day  different  and  apart 
was  too  much  of  an  instinct  to  be  lightly  dismissed. 
It  had  been  one  of  Mrs.  Robson's  pet  hobbies. 

"Why  should  I  go  to  the  theater  or  dance  on 
Sunday?"  Claire  remembered  hearing  her  mother 
argue  time  and  again  with  Mrs.  Finnegan.  "I  can 
do  those  things  any  other  day  in  the  week." 

Claire  had  a  feeling  that  her  mother's  convictions 
upon  this  matter  had  become  largely  a  question 
of  good  form  rather  than  of  religious  belief.  She 
knew  in  her  own  case  that  she  could  find  no  logic 
with  which  to  bolster  her  emphatic  distaste  for 
this  cafe  life  on  Sunday  night,  and  yet  it  was  only 
another  proof  of  the  inflexibility  of  custom. 

There  were  times,  too,  when  she  would  halt 
before  the  swinging  doors  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca,  in 
capable  of  realizing  that  she,  Claire  Robson,  was 
a  cafe  entertainer  in  the  Greek  quarter.  At  these 
moments  she  could  not  imagine  anything  more 

188 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

removed  from  the  hopes  or  even  the  fears  which 
she  had  held  for  her  future.  In  her  glimpses  into 
life  with  Stillman  and  Lily  Condor,  from  the  lofty 
vantage-ground  of  prejudice,  she  had  looked  down 
upon  these  women  who  sang  or  danced  or  played 
their  way  into  the  torpid  affections  of  an  eating 
and  drinking  public.  Once  at  the  conclusion  of 
an  indifferent  concert,  Stillman  had  whirled  Claire 
and  Mrs.  Condor  and  Edington  out  to  one  of  the 
beach  resorts.  Claire  had  been  struck  by  all  the 
tawdry  gaiety  of  that  evening,  the  flagging  spirits 
of  the  dancers  reinforced  by  sloppy  highballs,  the 
rattle  and  bang  of  the  "jazz"  orchestra,  the  rapa 
cious  horde  of  entertainers  moving  from  table  to 
table,  wrestling  dimes  and  quarters  and  half-dollars 
from  the  open-handed  assembly.  She  recalled  the 
contemptuous  way  in  which  the  silver  gratuities 
were  flung  at  what  seemed  to  Claire  these  profes 
sional  fawners. 

Her  impulse  to  refuse  the  money  that  had  been 
hurled  at  her  on  that  night  when  she  had  essayed 
the  Greek  national  anthem  carried  the  sting  of 
memories  with  it.  But  there  was  something  open- 
hearted  and  childlike  about  this  latter  performance 
that  robbed  it  of  unpleasantness. 

She  was  looking  forward  with  more  or  less  trepi 
dation  to  the  day  when  the  San  Francisco  public 
in  its  search  for  a  new  sensation  would  swoop  down 
upon  the  Cafe  Ithaca.  In  a  flash  she  saw  all  the 
beach-resort  atmosphere  duplicated  —  the  wine- 
blowsy  dancers,  the  loose-jointed  music,  the  shower 
of  small  change  falling  significantly  at  the  feet  of 
red-lipped  entertainers.  Already  she  had  received 

189 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  preliminary  warning  of  its  approach  from  Nellie 
Whitehead. 

"Don't  be  surprised,  Robson,  if  you  see  me  and 
Billy  Holmes  skate  into  your  joint  some  night. 
Billy  knows  a  young  Greek  doctor.  He  promised 
to  blow  himself  for  a  dinner  in  our  honor  any  time 
we  say  the  word.  You'd  better  bone  up  on  your 
rag-time.  We  don't  know  any  Greek  shepherd 
dances." 

Claire  took  the  hint  and  "boned  up"  on  her 
rag-time — or,  rather,  began  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  really  to  attempt  to  play  it.  And  one  night, 
true  to  her  word,  Nellie  Whitehead  came.  Early 
in  the  evening  a  table  had  been  set  for  four,  and 
Lycurgus  had  gone  to  the  flower-stands  in  front 
of  Lotta's  fountain  and  bought  pink  and  white 
carnations  for  a  centerpiece.  Claire  had  wondered 
at  the  reason  for  all  this  special  preparation,  but 
she  made  no  inquiries.  Nellie  Whitehead  breezed 
in  at  about  seven  without  any  escort. 

"Why  don't  they  have  a  decent  sign  out?  I 
almost  went  by  the  place,"  she  railed,  as  she  re 
leased  Claire  from  a  hearty  embrace.  "The  men 
will  be  here  in  a  minute.  But  I  came  on  ahead  for 
a  chat.  It's  that  doctor  I  was  telling  you  about 
.  .  .  he's  giving  the  feed.  He  isn't  a  Greek  at 
all  ...  he's  a  Serbian  or  something.  But,  good 
Lord!  What's  the  difference?  They  all  look  alike 
to  me.  Only,  this  one  seems  more  human  ...  his 
hair  doesn't  fuzz  out  as  much  as  some  of  them.  .  .  . 
The  fourth  place?  Why,  that's  been  set  for  you! 
.  .  .  You  can't  spare  the  time?  Now,  don't  you 
worry,  little  one;  it's  all  been  arranged.  This 

190 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

doctor  fellow  has  some  kind  of  a  pull  with  the  man 
agement.  If  he  wants  the  head  entertainer  to  dine 
with  him,  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  say  so." 

"A  Serbian!"  Claire  found  herself  mentally  ex 
claiming.  "Can  it  be  possible  that  ..." 

And  true  to  the  commonplace  and  thoroughly 
unexplainable  thing  called  ''chance"  it  was  possible. 
For  when  Billy  Holmes  arrived  at  seven- thirty 
with  his  Serbian  friend,  Dr.  George  Danilo,  Claire 
felt  herself  scarcely  surprised,  although  for  a  mo 
ment  she  grew  suddenly  cold. 

Claire  had  never  met  Billy  Holmes,  but  she  knew 
him  by  sight — a  bluff,  genial,  open-handed  man 
with  hair  thinning  about  the  temples  and  a  rather 
swaggering  walk.  He  was  just  the  proper  foil  for 
Danilo's  thick-haired,  beetle-browed,  red-lipped 
personality. 

After  the  first  chill  of  surprise,  Claire  somehow 
recovered  herself.  She  wondered  whether  Danilo 
remembered  that  tense  moment  six  months  ago 
when  he  had  pulled  his  audience  out  of  a  slough  of 
indifference  by  fixing  his  passionate  gaze  upon  her. 
She  had  an  impulse  to  ask,  but  there  was  something 
vaguely  disturbing  about  him.  Was  she  fasci 
nated,  or  repelled,  or  overwhelmed?  She  gave  it 
up.  But  sitting  opposite  him,  so  close  that  she 
could  have  touched  his  hand  if  she  had  dared,  she 
grew  to  feel  that  when  he  smiled  nothing  else  really 
mattered.  It  was  plain  that  Lycurgus  was  his 
abject  slave. 

As  the  dinner  progressed,  Claire  found  that  she 
was  to  be  relieved  of  her  post  at  the  piano  by  the 
continuous  rumblings  of  the  orchestrion.  Between 

191 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

courses,  Nellie  Whitehead  and  Billy  Holmes  danced, 
while  Claire  and  the  doctor  talked — that  is,  she 
let  him  talk  —  about  himself  and  his  work  and 
his  native  land.  It  was  this  last  topic  that  flamed 
him  most  completely.  Claire  listened  parted- 
lipped  as  he  poured  out  the  history  of  Serbia's 
wrongs.  He  pictured  his  country  ravaged,  broken, 
desolate,  buffeted  like  a  shuttlecock  between  the 
rackets  of  fate.  His  own  people  were  scattered 
like  chaff.  His  mother  —  he  merely  raised  his 
hand  at  the  mention  of  her  name  and  let  it  fall 
again. 

Boldly,  with  swift,  sure  strokes,  he  gave  her 
glimpses  of  far-flung  horizons,  community  griefs, 
national  sorrows,  the  bleeding  of  people  en  masse. 
She  had  experienced  something  of  this  before,  six 
months  ago,  when  he  had  harangued  the  Second 
Presbyterian  Church  into  grudging  applause,  but 
now,  to-night,  he  was  within  reach,  warm  and 
personal  and  palpitant. 

"I  am  going  back  ...  in  the  fall  ...  to  ... 
to  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  fumbling  for  the  proper  word,  as 
one  not  to  the  language  born  sometimes  does.  , 

She  felt  a  great  courage  sweep  over  her.  She 
wanted  him  to  remember. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  "I  know!  To  a  blood-red 
dawn!  You  are  going  back  to  a  blood-red  dawn!" 

How  he  smiled!  "Ah,"  escaped  him.  "Then 
you  remembered,  too!  .  .  .  You  were  the  only 
one  at  first  in  the  whole  room  who  listened.  ...  I 
had  never  spoken  to  quite  such  a  crowd  before.  .  .  . 
I  saw  you  twice  .  .  .  after.  Once  you  were  danc- 

192 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ing.  The  second  time  you  were  alone  ...  in  a 
doorway.  .  .  .  But  to-night,  here  ...  I  was  not 
prepared  to  find  you  here  and  so  .  .  ." 

She  was  both  pleased  and  annoyed.  Why  had 
she  not  waited  for  him  to  spur  he?  memory? 

Presently  Lycurgus  brought  champagne.  It  ap 
peared  that  this  was  a  very  special  date,  al 
though  every  one  had  forgotten  it  except  the 
Greek. 

"A  year  ago  .  .  .  thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you 
...  a  year  ago  is  the  war  for  America." 

"A  year  ago  since  we  went  into  the  war!"  ex 
claimed  some  one.  "Can  it  be  possible?" 

There  followed  toasts  to  Greece,  and  Serbia,  and 
America,  and  President  Wilson,  and  finally  to 
Danilo. 

"That  Danilo,"  Lycurgus  informed  the  party — • 
"that  Danilo — he  saved  my  life.  Now  he  can  have 
everything  I  own.  If  I  were  dead,  nothing  would 
be  of  any  use.  So  now  I  give  him  everything  .  .  . 
you  understand  ? — everything ! ' ' 

Claire  stared — she  was  not  yet  accustomed  to 
the  Oriental  extravagances  which  crept  so  naturally 
into  the  speech  of  Lycurgus. 

Altogether  it  was  a  happy  time,  in  spite  of  the 
shadow  of  world-wide  tragedy  that  lay  in  wait  just 
beyond  the  truant  light  of  personal  cheer. 

"You've  made  a  hit,  Robson!"  Nellie  Whitehead 
assured  her  at  the  conclusion  of  the  evening.  ' '  But 
how  in  Heaven's  name  could  you  listen  to  all  that 
Serbia  stuff?  .  .  .  Dope  about  the  little,  old  U.  S.  A. 
is  good  enough  for  me.  .  .  .  But  say,  he  isn't  so 
bad-looking.  If  I  didn't  have  Billy  on  my  staff  I 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

do  believe  ..."    She  finished  with  a  wink  and 
gave  Claire  a  playful  shove. 

On  her  way  home  that  night  Claire  said  to  her 
self,  'Til  have  to  look  up  some  books  on  Serbia 
at  the  library." 


CHAPTER  III 

TWO  days  after  Nellie  Whitehead's  invasion  of 
the  Cafe  Ithaca  a  group  of  insurance  special 
agents  came  for  dinner.  There  were  six  of  them 
in  the  party  and  they  were  accompanied  by  as 
many  women.  Calling  loudly  for  Lycurgus,  the 
spokesman  of  the  party  explained  their  wishes: 

"The  same  kind  of  a  feed  that  you  gave  our 
friend  Holmes  the  other  night,  and  all  the  fancy 
drinks.  .  .  .  You  know  us!" 

Mr.  Lycurgus  bowed  deeply  and  began  to  scurry 
about.  Claire  started  a  tune  on  the  piano. 

"Oh,  none  of  that  sad  stuff!"  called  out  one  of 
the  party.  "Give  us  a  little  jazz!" 

Claire  obeyed  to  the  best  of  her  ability.  They 
scrambled  up  and  began  to  dance.  Appetizers 
were  brought.  .  .  .  They  downed  them  greedily 
and  called  for  more. 

"Give  us  another  dance  while  we're  waiting," 
they  demanded  of  Claire. 

She  sat  at  her  post  all  evening,  grinding  out 
tunes.  The  party  continued  to  eat  and  drink  and 
dance  until  long  past  eleven  o'clock.  As  they  were 
leaving  one  of  the  men  threw  Claire  a  dollar.  It 
would  have  been  quite  as  easy  for  him  to  have 
walked  over  and  laid  it  on  the  piano.  But  he 
threw  it  at  her  instead  and  Claire  remembered  again 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  beach  resorts  and  the  contemptuously  flung 
bits  of  silver. 

" She's  a  rotten  jazz-player  at  that!"  she  heard 
one  of  the  women  say  as  the  party  opened  the  side 
door  and  disappeared,  followed  by  the  bobbing 
figure  of  Lycurgus. 

Jimmy  was  in  great  spirits. 

"This  is  the  life — eh,  Miss  Robson?  I  cleaned 
up  nearly  two  dollars.  These  countrymen  of  yours 
— they  spend  the  money !  Now  we  shall  see  plenty 
of  good  times." 

For  two  or  three  days  a  reaction  set  in  and  Jimmy 
was  disconsolate.  As  for  Claire,  she  found  herself 
welcoming  the  return  to  the  simpler  life  of  the 
quarter.  Already  she  was  resenting  the  intrusion 
of  the  outside  world.  But  Saturday  night  another 
crop  of  San  Franciscans  in  search  of  novelty  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca,  and  after  that 
there  was  no  stemming  the  tide. 

Gradually  the  Greek  patrons  retired  to  their 
former  positions  in  the  old  barroom,  the  Greek 
tunes  on  the  orchestrion  were  discarded  for  popu 
lar  successes  from  the  vaudeville  houses,  and  the 
thin  line  of  men  dancing  symbolically  upon  the 
maple  floor  as  Claire  played  for  them  became 
almost  a  memory. 

Mr.  Lycurgus  began  to  talk  about  hiring  enter 
tainers,  enlarging  the  dancing-space,  getting  in  an 
orchestra.  Claire  figured  on  dismissal.  She  knew 
that  as  a  rag-time  performer  she  was  not  a  success, 
and  her  only  wonder  was  that  Lycurgus  did  not 
let  her  go  at  once.  She  voiced  her  fears  to  Jimmy 
one  day. 

196 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Oh,  you  should  worry!"  was  Jimmy's  comment 
as  he  flicked  a  fly  with  his  towel.  "The  boss  he 
likes  you!" 

Claire  smiled.  She- was  becoming  accustomed 
to  these  naive  and  simple  explanations  of  conduct. 
Lycurgus  liked  her  and  therefore  he  would  con 
tinue  to  retain  her.  The  question  of  ability  was 
secondary.  Lycurgus  liked  her  because  she  asked 
him  questions  about  his  native  land  and  listened 
when  he  answered,  because  she  had  learned  the 
Greek  anthem  on  the  piano,  because  she  had  played 
peasant  dances  for  his  countrymen.  The  Greek 
patrons  liked  her  for  the  same  reason,  and  it  was 
no  longer  a  novelty  for  her  to  see  Jimmy  coming 
toward  her  with  slices  of  sesame  seed  and  honey, 
or  a  bit  of  sugar-dusted  pastry  for  her  delight,  the 
gift  of  one  of  the  diners  on  the  other  side  of  the 
green  curtains. 

She  had  heard  in  former  days  such  slighting  refer 
ences  to  the  morality  of  foreigners  in  general  that 
she  was  surprised  to  find  how  contemptuously  some 
of  these  Greek  patrons  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca  referred 
to  American  women.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
quality  of  the  smiles  which  they  threw  after  the 
spectacle  of  men  who  permitted  their  wives  to 
indulge  in  public  dancing. 

"In  my  country,"  Jimmy  had  explained  to  her, 
"we  do  not  even  touch  a  woman's  hand  when  we 
dance  with  her.  We  give  her  the  end  of  our  hand 
kerchief  instead  of  our  fingers." 

And  another  time  he  said : 

"What  is  the  matter  with  American  mothers, 
Miss  Robson?  Last  night  my  wife  found  a  boy 

197 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

and  girl  sitting  on  our  door-steps  long  after  ten 
o'clock.  She  opened  the  door  and  said  to  them, 
'Have  you  no  home?'  It  is  like  that  all  over. 
Young  girls  go  about  like  men.  I  do  not  think 
that  is  right!" 

Claire  found  herself  blushing,  and  at  once  she 
remembered  the  eager  social  -  settlement  worker 
who  had  pleaded  before  the  Home  Missionary 
Society  for  funds  * '  to  help  these  wards  of  the  nation 
to  a  keener  appreciation  of  our  institutions."  She 
wondered  what  the  effect  would  be  if  Jimmy  were 
to  address  this  organization. 

One  night,  exhausted  by  six  hours  of  continuous 
playing  for  a  hilarious  crowd  of  Americans,  Claire 
crept  into  one  of  the  coffee-houses  and  sat  down. 
She  was  really  too  tired  to  go  home,  and,  besides, 
she  had  a  sudden  desire  for  contrasts  while  the 
atmosphere  which  her  own  kind  had  brought  to 
the  Greek  quarter  was  already  fresh.  The  ap 
pearance  of  a  woman  in  the  coffee-house,  other 
than  the  waitresses,  was  unusual,  but  Claire  was 
surprised  to  find  only  the  most  casual  of  glances 
directed  her  way.  A  man  waited  on  her.  She 
ordered  Turkish  coffee.  On  a  raised  platform  an 
orchestra  was  performing;  in  the  clear  space  just 
below  a  half-dozen  men  were  dancing  one  of  the 
folk-dances  Claire  was  beginning  to  know  so  well. 
The  music  had  the  sad,  minor  quality  of  highland 
music  the  world  over,  and  in  addition  there  was 
an  Oriental  strain  which  recalled  certain  themes 
that  Rimsky-Korsokov  had  captured  and  woven 
into  the  Scheherazade  suite.  On  the  ochestrion 
at  the  Cafe  Ithaca  these  tunes  had  been  more  or 

198 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

less  clipped  of  their  wild  freedom — adapted  to  the 
scale  of  another  set  of  musical  conventions,  and 
Claire  had  sensed  their  novelty,  but  not  their  lack 
of  precise  musical  form.  Even  to-night  Claire 
thought  not  only  the  music,  but  the  way  in  which 
it  was  presented,  quite  outlandish,  but  as  she  sat 
sipping  her  sweetened  coffee  the  notes  and  the 
rhythm  gradually  assumed  a  coherence,  and  un 
consciously  her  own  feet  began  to  tap  the  floor. 

She  looked  about  the  room.  It  was  crowded 
and  the  air  was  thick  with  cigarette  smoke  and  the 
odd,  pungent  aroma  from  the  Oriental  water-pipes. 
Claire  had  studied  Greek  history  in  her  high-school 
days,  and  she  had  always  held  a  classical  picture 
of  Greek  life — flowing  garments,  marble  courtyards, 
gods  and  goddesses  made  flesh.  It  came  to  her 
sharply,  as  she  sat  in  the  coffee-house,  that  the  real 
flavor  had  a  distinct  tang  of  the  Orient  and  that 
the  picture  spread  before  her  was  more  suggestive 
of  the  Arabian  Nights  than  anything  else  she  could 
call  to  mind.  She  tried  to  fancy  the  men  about 
her  clothed  in  soft  silks,  with  jeweled  turbans  on 
their  heads  and  slippers  curving  into  sharp  points. 
One  of  the  musicians  began  to  sing  in  a  low,  mo 
notonous,  whining  voice,  striking  the  strings  of  his 
zither-like  instrument  with  long,  graceful  strokes. 
A  girl  bearing  a  tray  of  grenadine  syrup  and  a  box 
of  cigars  passed  her  table.  This  girl  had  features 
extraordinarily  regular,  and  her  skin  was  very  clear 
and  firm  and  provocative.  Claire  could  see  that 
she  was  a  favorite  and  that  she  left  a  vague  unrest 
in  her  wake. 

"This,"  flashed  through  her  mind,  "is  the  danger 
199 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

that  they  speak  of.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  these  coffee-houses  .  .  ." 

Abruptly  she  stopped  the  course  of  her  thoughts. 
The  memory  of  Flint's  office  suddenly  recurred. 
She  pictured  this  girl  in  a  business  environment. 

"It  would  be  the  same!"  she  finished  to  herself, 
shrugging  as  she  did  so. 

And  she  became  aware  that  the  girl  was  some 
thing  of  a  danger  herself,  in  a  fascinating,  ruthless, 
primitive  way — a  trap  set  by  nature  for  inscrutable 
ends.  She  thought  of  herself,  and  a  company  of 
pallid,  crushed  women  who  passed  milestone  after 
milestone  with  the  lagging  footsteps  that  would 
never  know  either  victory  or  defeat — a  company 
of  wan,  pallid  women  who  went  on  and  on  without 
even  the  respite  of  an  occasional  falling  by  the 
wayside,  women  sacrificing  everything,  even  life 
itself,  to  the  arid  joy  of  standards  fixed  and  im 
movable.  .  .  .  The  girl  emptied  her  tray  and  passed 
Claire  again.  This  time  she  swaggered  consciously 
as  if  she  realized  the  measure  that  another  of  her 
kind  was  taking.  Claire  felt  a  sudden  envy  for  all 
the  instinctive  courage  back  of  the  challenge  which 
this  palpitating  creature  was  throwing  out.  She 
leaned  forward  to  the  next  table  and  said  to  a  man 
sitting  there: 

"This  girl  who  has  just  passed  ...  is  she  Greek?" 

The  man  rolled  a  cigarette  insolently,  and  said 
in  almost  the  precise  words  of  Jimmy: 

"Greek?  I  should  say  not!  Greek  women  stay 
home!" 

He  looked  squarely  at  Claire  as  he  said  it,  and 
she  rose  at  once. 

200 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"They  should  thank  God  that  they  have  a  home 
to  stay  in,"  she  said,  passionately. 

The  man  stared,  shrugged,  and  laughed.  Claire 
went  out  into  the  street.  She  did  not  know  why 
she  had  spoken.  The  words  had  risen  to  her  lips  like 
a  cry  of  pain  at  the  pressure  of  relentless  ringers 
against  a  new-found  wound.  Until  this  moment 
Claire  had  always  fancied  that  she  had  a  home. 
Now  she  knew  that  it  took  something  more  than 
a  refuge,  walled  in  from  the  elements,  to  rise  to 
such  a  dignity.  And  in  a  flash  she  felt  that  this 
mysterious  and  indefinable  something  was  the 
lattice  upon  which  the  tendrils  of  a  woman's  soul 
climbed  toward  the  light.  It  was  possible,  of  course, 
to  push  forward  over  the  ramparts  of  life  without 
this  aid,  but  it  took  all  the  vigor  of  a  wild  unfold 
ing  of  the  spirit.  .  .  .  She  remembered  very  few 
flashes  of  beauty  in  her  mother's  life,  but  those  few 
were  the  blossoming  of  efforts  to  create  a  home 
for  her  child,  a  shield  from  the  wind  and  weather 
to  only  the  shallow  vision,  but  something  infinitely 
more  when  the  surface  of  things  was  scratched. 
Mrs.  Robson's  spirit  had  climbed  the  lattice  of 
her  sacrifice,  but  it  was  not  possible  for  Claire 
to  follow;  like  all  children,  she  had  outgrown 
the  narrow  confines  that  had  served  her  mother's 
need. 

The  night  was  clear  and  beautiful,  touched  with 
the  mystery  of  spring.  Claire  fancied  that  the 
crowds  surging  up  and  down  Third  Street  seemed 
more  restless,  more  full  of  desire,  more  vaguely 
hopeful  of  wresting  soul-stirring  experiences  from 
life.  There  were  many  uniforms  in  the  crush,  and 
H  201 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

men  wearing  them  stood  out  clearly,  striking  a 
note  of  youth  at  once  vibrant  and  pathetic.  But 
the  older  men  seemed  touched  with  a  faded  resig 
nation,  like  spent  pilgrims  who  see  the  glistening 
spires  of  some  holy  city  in  a  far  distance  which  they 
never  can  hope  to  attain.  And  somehow  Claire's 
youth  rose  up  and  went  out  to  meet  the  vision 
which  these  weary  souls  so  poignantly  glimpsed. 
She  longed  herself  for  these  far-flung,  golden-topped, 
opulent  duties  swimming  in  the  purple  twilight  of 
remoteness.  She  was  tired  of  the  drabness  and 
clutter  of  crowded  foregrounds.  Ah,  how  easy  it 
would  be  to  take  up  a  march  with  the  ugly  high 
ways  of  effort  veiled  by  the  softness  of  a  slanting 
sun! 

She  was  hurrying  across  Mission  Street  when 
she  felt  an  arm  laid  gently  upon  her  shoulder.  She 
turned — Danilo  stood  behind  her,  smiling. 

"Ah,  you  are  late!"  he  said. 

"I  was  too  tired  to  go  home  at  once,"  she  ad 
mitted.  "I  dropped  into  one  of  the  coffee-houses 
to  see  the  sights." 

He  stepped  back  to  the  curb.  She  followed  him. 
"I  have  my  car  half-way  up  the  block,"  he  ex 
plained  to  her.  "I  walked  to  the  corner  to  get 
cigarettes.  Which  way  do  you  go?" 

She  told  him. 

"I  will  take  you  home,  then.  I  am  going  in 
that  direction  myself.  I  am  to  look  in  on  a  patient 
at  the  Stanford  Court  apartments." 

"At  the  Stanford  Court  apartments?"  Claire  was 
conscious  that  her  tone  betrayed  a  surprise  bor 
dering  on  incredulity. 

202 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  smiled  back  at  her  indulgently  as  he  led  the 
way  to  his  car.  "A  man  who  got  caught  in  an 
automobile  smash-up  early  this*  evening.  I  was 
on  the  spot  and  he  has  asked  me  to  finish  the  matter. 
He  is  rich,  so  I  am  very  attentive."  He  laughed, 
showing  his  white  teeth.  "I  am  taking  him  out 
something  to  make  him  sleep,  otherwise  he  will 
have  a  bad  night." 

Claire  forced  her  interest  to  the  point  of  inquir 
ing,  "Was  he  seriously  hurt?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all!  He  rode  into  a  street-car  and 
got  a  nasty  blow — on  the  head.  But,  of  course, 
one  can  never  tell.  He  is  a  countryman  of  yours. 
Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  him.  His  name  is 
Stillman." 

Claire  did  not  reply.  She  was  surprised  into 
silence.  She  had  fancied  that  the  Greek  quarter 
would  close  the  door  on  any  vistas  of  her  former 
life. 

"I  understand  that  he  made  a  million  dollars 
last  week  by  a  trick  of  fortune,"  Danilo  went 
on  vivaciously.  "Shares  in  a  copper-mine  ...  or 
something  quite  as  wonderful.  ...  I  must  inter 
est  him  in  the  cause." 

"The  cause?  .  .  .  What  cause?"  Claire  inquired. 

"Why — why,  the  Serbian  cause,  of  course! 
You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  forgotten 
our  talk  already?" 

They  had  reached  the  car,  and  Danilo  lifted 
Claire  in. 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I've  been  intending  to  look  up  some  books  on 
Serbia." 

203 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

His  eyes  were  glowing.  "No!  ...  Did  you, 
really?  I  tell  you — I  shall  bring  you  some  books 
to-morrow." 

"If  you  only  would!  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  sure  that 
would  be  very  kind  of  you." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  next  evening  when  Claire  arrived  at  the 
Cafe  Ithaca  she  found  that  the  inevitable  had 
happened.  Lycurgus  had  engaged  a  staff  of  enter 
tainers.  There  were  two  women,  a  "professor" 
who  played  rag  on  the  piano,  and  a  man  with  an 
assortment  of  percussion  instruments,  including 
drums,  which  he  managed  to  manipulate  with  ex 
traordinary  dexterity. 

" We're  just  trying  this  as  a  kind  of  lay-off," 
explained  one  of  the  women  to  Claire,  with  pro 
fessional  hauteur.  "We've  been  doing  all  the  best 
places,  and  we're  that  worn  out!  What's  your 
line?" 

"I  play  the  piano,"  returned  Claire. 

The  woman  shifted  a  gilt  hairpin,  sweeping  the 
room  as  she  did  so  with  a  critical  glance. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  think  they'd  need  more  'n 
one  good  rag-player  here,"  she  announced,  with 
impartial  candor. 

"They  don't,"  said  Claire.  "I'm  pretty  bad 
at  it  myself." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  nothing  personal," 
threw  back  the  other,  surprised  and  mollified  by 
Claire's  modest  claims.  "I  guess  you  must  have 
some  sort  of  class!  Otherwise  you  wouldn't  figure 
at  all!" 

205 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Jimmy  explained  the  new  condition  to  Claire. 
"The  boss  wants  you  to  play  Greek  tunes.  I  told 
you  not  to  worry." 

Things  moved  rather  furiously  this  first  night, 
and  the  noise  and  bang  lured  some  of  the  Greek 
patrons  into  the  back  room.  The  women  sang 
dreadfully — the  big  blonde  who  had  talked  to  Claire, 
in  a  deafening,  female  baritone;  the  other  woman 
with  the  painful  self-cnonsciousess  of  one  struggling 
to  retain  the  remnants  of  a  voice  that  had  once  had 
promise.  This  second  woman  had  large,  appeal 
ing  brown  eyes  that  seemed  always  on  the  verge 
of  tears,  especially  when  she  sang. 

"She's  got  two  kids  and  a  sick  sister  to  support," 
Claire's  blond  friend  volunteered  during  a  pause 
in  the  evening's  entertainment.  "Kit's  had  some 
pretty  tough  goings,  all  right,  but  then  I  guess  we 
ain't  none  of  us  been  brought  up  in  steam-heated 
go-carts.  I've  taken  three  fliers  at  getting  married 
myself,  so  I  ought  to  qualify  for  a  certificate  from 
that  old  trouble  school.  Oh,  I'm  nothing  if  not 
game!  A  gentleman  friend  said  to  me  only  last 
night,  'Say,  Madge,  what  I  like  about  you  is  that 
you're  always  ready  to  take  a  chance/  And  I  am 
— otherwise  I  wouldn't  be  here.  What  rake-off 
does  the  old  boy  give  you  on  the  drinks  you  sell?" 

"Drinks  I  sell?"  echoed  Claire.  "Why,  I  don't 
sell  drinks." 

"Oh,  come  now,  don't  get  haughty!  Of  course 
you  don't  draw  'em  out  at  the  spigot.  You're 
there  with  the  big  suggestion,  ain't  you,  when  the 
boys  don't  know  whether  to  order  beer  or  White 
Rock?" 

206 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  am.  You  see,  we  haven't 
been  running  much  of  a  cafe  here  so  far." 

"Well,  I  should  say  you  haven't!  You've  been 
running  a  Childs  restaurant.  But  you  just  watch 
me  wake  'em  up!"  And  with  that  Madge  crossed 
over  to  a  table  in  the  corner  where  six  Greeks  were 
having  cognac  and  Turkish  coffee,  and  she  sat 
down.  .  .  .  Presently  Jimmy  flew  in  with  three 
bottles  of  beer.  Madge  waved  a  triumphant  hand 
to  Claire,  who  had  just  begun  to  play  a  Greek 
shepherd  dance. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  wake  'em  up?"  she  called 
out,  gaily. 

Claire  saw  Lycurgus  coming  toward  her,  rubbing 
his  hands  with  satisfaction. 

"Ah,  Miss  Robson,  that  girl  .  .  .  she  knows 
how!  I  guess  now  we  do  a  good  business,  eh?" 

Claire  threw  him  a  warped  smile  as  she  began 
to  play.  But  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  score  or 
more  of  the  old  patrons  were  within  earshot,  there 
was  no  attempt  at  folk-dancing. 

"This  is  the  end!"  thought  Claire,  as  she  yielded 
her  place  to  the  "professor." 

At  that  moment  Doctor  Danilo  came  in. 

"Improvements?"  he  half  questioned,  lifting  his 
eyebrows  significantly  to  Claire.  "Let  us  sit  down 
and  have  coffee." 

He  had  brought  her  two  books  on  Serbia — a  brief 
history  and  a  sketch  of  modern  conditions.  Claire 
bent  forward  attentively  as  he  opened  first  one 
and  then  the  other,  explaining  the  pictures,  tracing 
the  war's  progress  on  the  inevitable  maps.  Finally 
she  said: 

207 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Did  you  interest  your  patient?" 

"Scarcely.  He  was  not  in  good  condition  to 
day.  But  then  one  never  cars  tell.  Knocks  upon 
the  head  are  full  of  possibilities.  He  is  indifferent. 
If  he  were  not  an  American,  I  would  think  him  in 
love.  But  Americans,  really,  they  never  have  time 
for  foolishness." 

He  sat  with  Claire  until  long  after  midnight. 
When  she  arose  to  leave  he  insisted  upon  taking 
her  home  in  his  car. 

The  next  evening  Madge  said  to  her: 

"No  wonder  you  don't  waste  your  time  on  the 
other  guys  around  here !  Folks  who  can  make  home- 
runs  don't  figure  on  stealing  any  bases." 

There  followed  a  hectic  period  of  prosperity  for 
the  Cafe  Ithaca.  At  once  it  seemed  that  everybody 
in  San  Francisco  knew  of  it  and  was  determined 
to  lay  violent  hands  upon  its  cut-to-measure  gaiety. 
The  entertainers  were  changed  rapidly.  Madge 
departed  one  evening  in  a  blaze  of  wrath  because 
some  "fresh  guy"  laughed  at  her  friend  Kit's  pain 
ful  attempts  at  song.  Kit  threw  herself  upon  a 
chair  in  the  dressing-room  and  sobbed  her  heart 
out. 

"Don't  you  care,  Kit,  he  wasn't  no  gentleman!" 
It  had  been  pathetic  to  discover  what  comfort  these 
two  women  managed  to  extract  from  so  frugal  a 
solace. 

So  this  was  the  gay  and  frivolous  life  of  the  cafe 
entertainer  at  close  range!  It  never  really  had 
occurred  to  Claire  to  fancy  that  most  of  these 
women  were  meeting  the  responsibilities  of  life  with 

208 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  ghastly  smile.  Even  Madge  had  her  duties. 
There  was  a  crippled  child  in  some  hospital,  the 
sad  spawn  of  a  weak  relation,  that  Madge  was 
sponsoring.  Claire  had  heard  of  this  quite  by 
accident  one  night  when  Madge's  temper  caught 
her  off  guard.  A  party  of  vaudeville  performers 
had  come  in  for  a  midnight  frolic,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  hilarity  one  of  the  women  stood 
up  on  her  chair  and  sang  a  tear-starting  ballad 
about  a  gray-haired  mother  and  a  family  mortgage 
and  a  wayward  son  who  seemed  to  continue  his 
course  merely  to  provide  a  becoming  background 
for  his  mother's  silver  hair.  Quantities  of  loose 
change  had  met  this  effort,  and  the  lady  gathered 
up  the  scant  folds  of  her  very  red  dress  as  she  bent 
over  and  picked  up  every  coin,  to  the  last  penny. 

"Can  you  beat  that?"  Madge  had  demanded 
fiercely  of  Claire.  "I'm  getting  kinder  tired  of  the 
way  Lycurgus  lets  this  foreign  talent  walk  away 
with  the  goods.  I  don't  care  for  myself,  but  I  need 
every  extra  dime  I  pick  up."  And  she  had  ex 
plained  to  Claire  about  this  warped  fragment  of 
humanity  and  her  responsibility.  "I'm  its  god 
mother,  and  I  come  through  with  all  the  extra 
money  I  rake  in." 

After  that  Claire  found  the  insolently  flung  coins 
assuming  new  values. 

But  all  the  entertainers  were  not  cast  in  the 
heroic  mold  , of  self-sacrifice.  Claire  discovered 
that  there  was  just  as  much  heartlessness,  and 
greed,  and  middle-class  smugness  among  these 
people  as  there  was  in  any  other  walk  of  life.  In 
short,  Claire  was  learning  something  about  the  law 

209 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

of  average,  learning  to  be  unsurprised  by  a  flash 
of  gold  in  the  dullest  panful,  or  as  equally  unmoved 
when  some  dazzling  bit  proved  dross. 

She  began  to  wonder  how  long  she  could  stand 
the  new  atmosphere  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca.  There 
was  a  certain  irony  in  discovering  herself  on  the 
verge  of  rout  by  the  intrusion  of  her  own  country 
men.  There  was  no  doubt  that  a  corroding  in 
fluence  was  eating  out  the  simplicity  of  the  old 
life  of  the  quarter.  In  the  coffee-houses  the  alien 
customs  still  persisted,  and  the  men  danced  their 
dances  of  greeting  with  all  the  old  fervor,  sipping 
their  grenadine  syrup  and  Turkish  coffee  between- 
times,  but  in  the  Cafe  Ithaca  rag-time  was  king, 
and  the  Greeks  were  learning  that  it  was  neither 
necessary  nor  desirable  to  leave  untouched  the 
fingers  of  their  female  partners. 

"That,  in  itself,  means  nothing,"  Danilo  had  said 
to  Claire  one  evening,  as  they  sat  discus'sing  the 
subject;  "but  it  is  dangerous  for  a  people  to  lose 
its  symbols  .  .  .  unless  there  is  offered  something 
better,  and  I  cannot  say  ..." 

He  swept  the  room  with  a  significant  glance. 

Claire  had  to  admit  that  nothing  better  had 
been  offered,  nor  anything  quite  so  good.  She 
had  practically  nothing  to  do,  now.  Once  in  a 
while  some  Greek  asked  her  to  play  one  of  the  old 
folk  tunes,  but  her  efforts  fell  upon  irresponsive 
ears.  She  knew,  also,  that  some  of  the  entertainers 
resented  her  professional  aloofness.  Not  that  she 
consciously  stood  apart  from  them.  But  they 
were  quick  to  measure  the  difference  in  her  atti 
tude,  the  fact  that  she  appeared  to  have  very  little 

210 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

to  do,  and  that  she  was  not  expected  to  cajole  the 
unattached  male  frequenters  into  buying  drinks. 
She  could  not  have  said  just  why  this  last  service 
was  not  insisted  upon,  now  that  she  had  so  little 
opportunity  to  earn  her  salary,  but  she  concluded 
it  was  one  of  those  intangible  situations  which 
continually  put  to  rout  the  theory  that  cold  logic 
sways  the  world.  Measured  by  every  practical 
standard,  Claire  should  have  either  earned  her  way 
or  been  dismissed;  but  Lycurgus  for  some  myste 
rious  reason  saw  fit  to  ignore  the  claims  of  expedi 
ency  in  Claire's  case. 

Danilo  had  become  a  frequent — almost  a  nightly 
— visitor  at  the  Cafe  Ithaca.  He  came  with  books 
for  Claire,  about  Serbia,  about  the  war,  about  the 
place  America  was  playing  in  the  struggle.  In 
the  intervals  she  contrived  to  learn  something 
about  Stillman.  His  accident  had  kept  him  in 
doors  longer  than  the  doctor  had  expected.  It 
appeared  that  these  two  suddenly  had  become 
warm  friends. 

"I  find  he  has  been  to  my  country,"  Danilo  told 
her  one  night.  "He  has  been  everywhere;  but 
why  not?  One  must  pass  the  time  in  some 
way.  .  .  .  'You  are  a  waster,'  I  said  to  him  yes 
terday." 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that?"  Claire  asked, 
eagerly. 

"He  said:  'I  am  a  reaction.  ...  I  come  of  a 
people  who  lived  hard.  The  race  is  resting  up 
after  the  struggle.  For  over  three  hundred  years 
we  have  been  subduing  the  wilderness.  That  is 
why  we  are  willing  to  let  the  others  step  in  and  do 

211 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  work/  But  he  is  not  quite  fair  to  himself, 
now.  ...  I  understand  that  he  is  doing  great 
things  for  his  own  government.  His  friends  say 
he  is  quite  changed.  ...  He  is  a  fine  man.  Al 
ready  I  think  of  him  as  a  brother." 

Claire  glimpsed  a  new  Stillman  in  these  frag 
ments  which  the  doctor  brought  her.  It  was  the 
man-to-man  Stillman,  without  artifice  and  reserva 
tions.  And  she  had  an  added  sense  of  masculine 
unity,  of  the  impenetrable  circle  that  men  draw 
about  their  conduct,  so  far  as  the  other  sex  is  con 
cerned.  She  found  that  he  had  been  moved  to  even 
deeper  revelations  under  the  sympathetic  intriguing 
of  one  of  his  own  kind.  He  even  told  the  doctor 
about  his  wife. 

1 '  I  do  not  think  he  is  a  man  who  has  many  confi 
dants,"  Danilo  explained.  "I  do  not  know  why  he 
tells  these  things  to  me.  Perhaps  my  profession 
has  something  to  do  with  it.  It  is  not  such  a  great 
step  from  physical  to  spiritual  confessions.  And 
then  I  am  really  not  a  part  of  his  intimate  circle. 
He  has  nothing  to  fear  from  finding  himself  betrayed 
in  his  own  house,  so  to  speak.  But  there  is  one 
thing  I  have  not  yet  learned.  And  what  is  more, 
I  do  not  think  I  shall — from  him.  There  is  a  woman, 
somewhere.  But  a  man  like  Stillman  does  not 
speak  of  the  thing  near  his  heart." 

She  felt  herself  tremble.  The  doctor  leaned 
forward. 

"I  am  talking  too  much  about  this  patient  of 
mine,"  he  laughed.  "I'm  stirring  your  imagination. 
I  keep  forgetting  that  I  have  my  own  hand  to  play." 

Claire  drew  back.     His  dark  eyes  were  lit  with 

212 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

sudden  fire.  She  trembled  again,  but  this  time 
like  a  blade  of  dry  grass  caught  in  the  hot  wind- 
eddies  of  a  near-by  blaze. 

"Ah,  doctor!  You  are  like  them  all!"  suddenly 
escaped  her. 

11  All?"  His  voice  quivered  with  indignation. 
She  had  never  seen  any  one  so  wounded.  For  a 
moment  she  was  stunned.  She  did  not  reply. 

He  rose  with  a  quick,  nervous  movement. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said,  harshly.  "A  doctor, 
you  know  .  .  .  yes,  a  doctor's  time  is  never  his 


own." 


She  knew  that  he  was  lying.  His  face  had  lost 
its  glowing  color,  his  full  lips  had  thinned.  She 
had  never  experienced  anything  like  this  before. 
It  was  not  the  grossness  of  Flint  nor  the  restrained 
ardor  of  Stillman;  it  was  desire  charmed  by  the 
hope  of  virtue  and  angered  at  the  possibility  of 
finding  this  hope  a  mirage.  And  it  was  something 
even  more  exacting  than  this — it  was  desire  allied 
to  egotism,  a  wish  to  be  first  in  the  field.  ...  So 
it  had  come  ...  at  last!  It  had  come  and  she 
felt  afraid!  .  .  . 

On  her  way  home  that  night  she  thought  it  all 
over.  Yes,  somehow;  with  joy  covering  her  parted 
lips  tempestuously,  she  had  the  will  to  think  calmly 
on  one  point.  To-morrow  she  would  tell  Danilo 
that  she  knew  Stillman.  She  must  tell  him.  She 
had  not  meant  to  be  deceitful,  but  for  some  reason 
it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  discuss  even  casual  mas 
culine  relationships  with  Danilo.  It  would  be 
hard,  but  she  must  tell  him  .  .  .  everything! 
Everything?  .  .  .  Even  about  that  last  night  when 

213 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

.  .  .  Well,  perhaps  there  were  some  things  that 
still  belonged  to  her  .  .  .  some  secrets  that  were 
her  very  own. 

Danilo  stayed  away  from  the  Cafe  Ithaca  for 
two  days.  He  came  in  again,  smiling.  But  he 
did  not  mention  Stillman's  name,  and  Claire's 
resolution  to  tell  him  that  she  knew  his  patient  was 
put  to  rout.  Instead,  he  talked  about  Claire's 
personal  fortunes  with  a  direct  and  puzzling  sym 
pathy.  He  wanted  to  know  everything — about 
herself,  her  prospects,  her  mother.  Claire  found  it 
impossible  to  resent  his  inquisitiveness.  There  was 
something  bland  and  childlike  about  it.  At  the 
conclusion  of  their  talk  he  said : 

"I  should  like  to  call  on  your  mother,  sometime. 
Not  professionally  .  .  .  just  as  a  friend." 

He  arrived  at  the  Clay  Street  flat  the  next  after 
noon.  Claire  had  prepared  her  mother  for  the 
visit. 

"A  new  doctor,"  she  had  explained,  without 
going  into  any  further  details.  Mrs.  Robson  had 
got  to  a  point  where  she  asked  no  questions. 

He  stepped  laughingly  into  Mrs.  Robson's 
cramped  bedroom,  and  as  she  turned  her  face 
broke  into  a  smile.  It  was  the  first  laugh  and  the 
first  smile  that  this  dreary  room  had  seen  for  months. 
He  talked  about  the  weather,  became  interested 
in  a  picture  that  hung  on  the  wall,  told  an  amusing 
story  that  he  had  chanced  upon  that  morning.  It 
was  as  if  a  window  suddenly  had  been  opened  to 
a  cleansing  breeze. 

After  that  he  came  every  day.  He  was  never 
214 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

empty-handed.  He  brought  flowers,  or  sweetmeats 
from  the  Greek  quarter,  or  delicate  morsels  that 
he  picked  up  in  the  markets.  Mrs.  Robson  grew 
to  watch  for  his  coming.  He  called  her  "Little 
Mother"  in  the  Russian  fashion.  She  would 
smile  warmly  as  she  listened  to  him  linger  caress 
ingly  over  this  term  of  endearment.  He  seemed 
to  have  the  greatest  respect  for  Mrs.  Robson,  but 
he  was  brutally  indifferent  to  the  poor  little  seam 
stress,  Miss  Proll,  whom  he  ran  into  once  or  twice 
as  he  was  leaving  the  house. 

"These  spinsters!"  he  would  say  with  scorn, 
as  she  passed  him  on  the  stairs. 

He  seemed  to  concede  anything  to  a  woman 
who  had  fulfilled  the  obligations  of  motherhood,  but 
he  found  nothing  to  excuse  the  lack. 

His  visits  quite  transformed  the  atmosphere  of 
the  Robson  household.  It  was  incredible  that  ten 
minutes  a  day  in  the  thrall  of  a  personality,  hearty 
and  masculine,  could  so  change  the  anemic  current 
of  gloom  that  had  encompassed  these  women. 
Mrs.  Robson  began  to  take  a  fragmentary  interest 
in  life.  Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  non 
committal  words  of  the  doctor  in  answer  to  Claire's 
inquiries  regarding  her  mother's  chance  for  im 
provement,  she  would  have  been  misled  into  hoping 
for  better  days. 

It  was  plain  that  Danilo's  own  hearthstone  was 
a  tradition,  something  stretching  b^ck  into  a  misty 
past,  and  that  he  was  finding  a  stimulation  in  cross 
ing  the  threshold  of  this  far  Western  home.  All 
his  life  had  been  spent  in  wanderings.  There  was 
a  touch  of  the  nomad  about  him.  He  had  starved 

215 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

in  Paris,  studied  relentlessly  in  Berlin,  and  walked 
the  streets  of  New  York  penniless.  He  had  lived 
in  hospitals,  and  wretched  rooming-houses,  and 
cold,  impersonal  hotels.  The  first  years  of  his  youth 
had  been  surrendered  ruthlessly  to  his  profession. 
There  was  a  shade  of  cruelty  in  the  pictures  which 
he  drew  of  his  relentless  ardor  for  learning,  in  those 
soul-thirsty  days.  One  would  have  thought  that? 
all  these  years  of  wandering  had  taken  the  edge 
off  any  national  feeling,  but  he  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  flamed  with  the  old  folk-consciousness,  as 
some  bare  twig  bursts  into  a  white  heat  of  bloom 
with  the  coming  of  spring.  Now  all  the  fury  that 
moved  him  to  assault  the  ramparts  of  learning  was 
being  poured  out  in  the  prospect  of  personal  sacri 
fice  for  his  native  land.  He  was  caught  up  in  this 
cloud  of  fire  and  transfigured.  When  he  spoke  of 
these  things  Claire  felt  awe.  She  had  never  yet 
beheld  a  man  gripped  by  an  emotional  enthusiasm. 

' 'You  are  wondering,  no  doubt,"  he  would  say 
again  and  again,  "why  I  have  not  gone  back  .  .  . 
before!  But  it  seemed  best  ...  to  wait.  My 
country  will  need  men  of  my  profession,  later.  .  .  . 
Later,  I  shall  do  things.  I  shall  bind  up  wounds. 
Ah,  it  had  not  been  easy  to  persuade  myself  to 
wait.  It  is  never  easy.  To  move  with  the  crowd, 
that  is  easy  .  .  .  even  when  the  crowd  moves  to 
certain  death.  But  to  sit  and  wait  for  your  ap 
pointed  time  .  .  .  with  people  sneering  beneath 
their  smiles  ...  no,  that  is  not  easy!" 

Once  she  asked  him  about  his  parents.  His 
father,  it  appeared,  had  been  a  professor  of  Greek 
in  the  university  at  Belgrade;  his  mother  from 

216 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

peasant  stock,  the  daughter  of  a  prosperous  landed 
proprietor.  He  seemed  more  proud  of  this  peasant 
stock  than  of  his  father's  high  breeding.  Claire 
was  puzzled.  To  her  American  ears  the  very  word 
peasant  savored  of  unequality,  of  a  certain  check 
mated  opportunity. 

1  'My  father  saw  my  mother  during  the  season 
of  fruit  blossoms.  He  was  traveling  through  the 
country  after  an  illness,  and  my  mother  was  stand 
ing  in  her  father's  orchard,  among  the  flowering 
plum-trees.  My  father  was  no  longer  a  young  man, 
but  it  was  the  spring  of  the  year!"  he  finished,  with 
an  eloquent  gesture. 

Now  his  father  was  dead.  His  mother  ...  he 
did  not  know.  He  had  received  no  tidings  for 
months.  But  it  appeared  that  news  of  his  people 
had  always  been  infrequent.  It  was  not  precisely 
neglect — Claire  was  sure  that  the  memory  of  these 
kinsfolk  was  always  with  him,  something  almost 
too  real  and  tangible  to  call  for  confirmation  in  the 
shape  of  a  formal  exchange  of  greetings. 

"Next  fall,  if  she  is  still  alive,  I  shall  see  this 
mother  of  mine,"  he  finished. 

Claire  had  a  picture  of  him  enfolding,  unashamed, 
a  stooping,  wrinkled  peasant  woman  in  his  eager 
arms — a  peasant  woman  with  a  gaudy  kerchief 
on  her  head.  But  she  was  surprised  when  on 
the  next  day  he  brought  a  picture  of  his  mother 
to  her. 

She  had  a  grave,  handsome  face,  and  her  cos 
tume  was  at  once  simple  and  fashionable.  And 
she  was  anything  but  bowed  with  age. 

"And  here  are  my  two  brothers  and  a  sister!" 
15  2I7 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  took  the  photographs  from  him.  "Oh, 
then  there  are  others!" 

"Others?  Did  you  fancy  that  my  mother  was 
an  American?"  He  laughed.  .  .  . 

One  afternoon  early  in  May  he  came  in  with  an 
unusual  amount  of  bundles. 

"See,  Little  Mother!"  he  called  out,  gaily,  to 
Mrs.  Robson.  "To-day  is  my  name-day  and  we 
shall  have  a  feast!" 

Mrs.  Robson  stared  faintly. 

"Ah,  you  do  not  understand!  It  is  St.  George's 
Day — the  saint  for  whom  I  am  named.  In  my 
country  there  would  be  a  celebration,  I  can  tell 
you!" 

He  was  brimming  over  with  good  spirits.  He 
had  brought  a  chicken,  a  small  tub  of  bitter,  ripe 
olives,  and  three  bottles  of  red  wine  and  a  cere 
monial  cake.  He  had  even  invested  in  a  cheap 
icon,  and  a  tiny  glass  swinging-lamp  to  burn  before 
it,  and  he  set  the  holy  image  up  in  a  corner  of  the 
dining-room,  much  to  Mrs.  Robson's  weak  dismay. 
Even  Claire  felt  a  measure  of  disapproval  at  this 
act,  as  if  acquiescence  made  her  subscribe  to  some 
thing  that  she  had  no  faith  in.  Danilo  really  had 
prepared  all  this  good  cheer  for  Mrs.  Robson,  and 
he  moved  a  couch  from  the  living-room  into  the 
dining-room  and  carried  Mrs.  Robson  in. 

He  had  flowers  for  the  center  of  the  table,  too; 
not  the  flamboyant  blossoms  of  the  florist  shops, 
but  a  shy  little  bouquet  of  wild  bloom  that  he  had 
picked  only  that  morning  in  the  sand-hills  near 
Ingleside,  where  he  had  gone  to  see  a  sick  country 
man. 

218 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"He  lives  in  the  most  wretched  hut  imaginable," 
he  told  them.  "But  such  a  view!  Upon  a  hillside, 
and  the  whole  Pacific  Ocean  at  his  feet.  He  leases 
a  patch  of  land  from  the  water  company,  and  grows 
violets  and  purple  cabbages  and  rows  of  pale-green 
lettuce.  It  is  extraordinary  how  much  he  accom 
plishes  in  such  a  small  space.  And  he  is  in  love  .  .  . 
it  is  too  absurd !  .  .  .  with  a  little  short,  squat  Italian 
girl  whose  father  has  the  bit  of  land  adjoining. 
She  is  pretending  to  be  indifferent,  the  little  bag 
gage  !  And  he  has  taken  to  his  bed  and  fancies  he 
has  an  incurable  disease.  After  all,  there  is  nothing 
so  foolish  as  a  man  when  he  takes  the  notion!" 

He  helped  lay  the  cloth,  tugging  in  sly,  boyish 
fashion  at  his  end  until  he  brought  the  smiles  to 
Claire's  grave  face. 

"There,  that  is  better!  Now  you  look  as  if  it 
were  a  feast-day!  .  .  .  Come,  do  you  realize  that 
I  am  thirty-two  to-day?  Perhaps  that  is  why  you 
look  so  sad!  .  .  .  Yes,  there  is  no  mistake,  I  am 
getting  old.  Wait,  I  will  show  you  how  I  wish 
that  chicken  cooked." 

And  he  rushed  Claire  off  her  feet  and  into  the 
kitchen.  His  spirits  were  contagious.  Claire  found 
herself  singing,  and  she  heard  her  mother's  laugh 
echoing  like  a  faint  tinkling  bell  through  the  gloom 
of  some  sunless  street. 

By  five  o'clock  the  feast  was  over.  For  the 
first  time  since  her  illness  Mrs.  Robson  had  been 
tempted  beyond  the  mere  duty  of  eating.  She 
had  even  had  some  wine — about  a  half-glassful 
which  Danilo  had  held  for  her  to  sip.  He  had  fed 
her,  too,  with  an  unobtrusive,  almost  matter-of-fact 

219 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

tenderness  which  carried  no  suggestion  of  her  help 
lessness. 

As  he  was  leaving  he  said  to  Claire : 

"There  will  be  no  end  of  celebrating  at  the 
Ithaca  to-night.  I  shall  see  you  there.  I  am  going 
to  dinner  with  my  rich  patient.  .  .  .  You  remember 
.  .  .  Stillman.  He  asked  me  to  have  a  meal  at 
the  St.  Francis.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  cham 
pagne.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  if  he  is  in  the  humor,  I  shall 
bring  him  down  to  the  cafe." 

Claire  went  back  into  the  dining-room  and  began 
to  clear  away  the  litter.  She  had  an  impulse  to 
telephone  Lycurgus  and  tell  him  that  she  could 
not  come  to  the  cafe  that  night.  To  face  Stillman 
seemed  impossible.  The  afternoon  had  been  so 
full  of  cheer,  so  simple  and  pleasant.  Was  it  all 
to  end  in  some  dreary  complication?  Why  was  it 
her  lot  to  always  feel  these  sharp  reactions  when 
ever  she  surrendered  to  happiness?  But  the  more 
she  thought  about  excusing  herself  to  Lycurgus 
the  more  distasteful  such  a  course  seemed.  To 
night  was  a  feast-night,  and  there  would,  doubtless, 
be  a  company  of  the  old  patrons  looking  forward 
to  the  familiar  dances  and  national  tunes.  No, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  through  with  it. 

She  debated  over  what  to  wear.  So  far,  she  had 
appeared  at  the  cafe  in  the  simplest  of  street  cos 
tumes.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  had  always  been 
able  to  maintain  a  certain  air  of  standing  out  of 
the  gaudy  current  of  cafe  life.  But  she  felt  to 
night  it  might  be  a  graceful  act  if  she  went  in  braver 
apparel,  a  tribute  to  these  people  who  had  been  her 
friends.  And  suddenly  she  remembered  that  Ly- 

220 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

curgus's  given  name  was  George.  Then  it  was  a 
feast-day  for  him,  too!  She  threw  Gertrude  Sin 
clair's  discarded  finery  on  the  bed  and  ran  through 
it.  Here  was  the  black  gown  that  she  had  worn 
at  the  Russian  Ballet,  and  the  gold-embroidered 
costume  that  had  done  such  service  during 
her  nights  with  Mrs.  Condor.  She  passed  them 
by  and  looked  at  a  pale -blue  scrap  of  a  dress, 
and  a  lacy  trifle  all  white  with  a  wide  pink 
sash,  and  a  barbaric-looking  spangled  affair  that 
she  had  never  had  quite  the  courage  to  wear.  She 
would  wear  it  to-night  and  startle  these  friends 
of  hers.  She  would  wear  it  to-night  and  play  her 
new  rdle  to  the  limit.  A  cafe  entertainer?  Well, 
and  why  not? 

She  put  the  dress  on  and  found  herself  startled 
by  the  effect.  She  had  drawn  back  her  hair  in  the 
exaggerated  simplicity  that  was  the  itiode,  al 
lowing  two  formal  ringlets  to  escape  and  curl  their 
suggestive  way  just  below  either  temple.  At  the 
corner  of  one  eye  a  beauty  patch  gave  her  glance 
a  sinister  coquet tishness.  She  could  not  have 
imagined  herself  so  changed.  The  gown  was  a 
shimmering  blue-green  mass,  cut  very  low,  and  with 
the  narrowest  of  shoulder-straps.  For  a  moment 
Claire  had  a  misgiving.  What  could  she  be  think 
ing  of  to  hazard  such  a  costume?  But  there  suc 
ceeded  a  tempestuous  wish  to  be  daring,  to  try  her 
feminine  lure  to  its  utmost  power,  to  dazzle  for 
once  in  her  life.  And  Danilo?  What  would  he 
think  of  her?  He  would  be  surprised! 

She  put  on  her  shabby  coat  and  wound  a  black- 
lace  scarf  about  her  hair.  Then  she  looked  into 

22* 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  glass  again.  Now  she  might  be  the  old  Claire 
of  church  social  days,  for  any  outside  sign  to  the 
contrary.  She  had  worn  this  very  cloak  and  scarf 
on  the  night  when  she  had  first  seen  Danilo,  less 
than  six  months  ago!  She  pushed  aside  her  lace 
head-covering,  and  the  beauty  patch  and  the  in 
triguing  ringlets  peeped  out.  Six  months  ago  she 
would  have  been  incapable  of  this  deliberate  ac 
centuation  of  her  personality.  She  would  not 
have  lacked  the  desire,  perhaps,  but  she  would 
have  been  without  the  skill  to  accomplish  it. 
What  had  been  taking  place  in  her  soul?  She 
had  a  feeling,  as  she  stared  at  herself  in  the  glass, 
that  defiance  lay  back  of  most  of  the  broken  rules 
of  life.  She  was  defiant — defiant!  She  brought 
her  fist  down  upon  the  bureau,  and  it  came  to  her 
that  she  had  put  this  dress  on,  not  to  please  her 
Greek  friends,  not  to  honor  Lycurgus,  not  to  sur 
prise  Danilo!  No,  she  had  put  it  on  because  she 
hoped  to  see  Stillman  at  the  Cafe  Ithaca.  She  had 
put  it  on  out  of  sheer  bravado.  She  could  not 
bear  to  have  Stillman  feel  that  she  was  in  that 
place  under  protest,  playing  the  game  half-heart 
edly.  No,  she  wanted  him  to  think  that  she  liked 
the  life,  that  she  had  no  regrets,  that  she  was 
proud  and  self-contained  and  reliant.  She  wanted 
to  wound  him. 

Outside,  the  evening  was  clear  and  cool.  A  wind 
had  been  blowing  all  day — the  first  trade-wind  of 
the  season.  Presently,  she  thought,  summer  would 
be  upon  them  with  its  misty,  tremulous  nights  and 
its  wind-swept  days.  She  knew  little  of  the  tra- 

222 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

ditional  summer  of  the  calendar,  warm  and  opu 
lent.  San  Francisco  had  a  trick  of  ignoring 
climatic  rules,  playing  the  coquette  with  the  sun, 
drawing  a  veil  from  the  sea  across  its  gray-green 
face.  But  Claire  had  always  liked  these  wayward 
summer  months,  liked  the  swift  changes,  the  salty 
tang  in  the  air,  the  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  after 
noon  among  the  eucalyptus- trees.  There  was  a 
certain  robust  melancholy  about  all  these  things, 
a  wind-clean  virility. 

As  she  rode  down  Third  Street  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  sidewalks  were  less  crowded  than  usual. 
The  younger  men  were  already  off  to  war.  Only 
a  broken  few  remained,  and  summer  was  beckoning 
these  afield,  luring  them  from  the  paved  streets 
with  glib,  false  promises.  By  the  end  of  October 
they  would  be  drifting  back  again,  disillusioned, 
betrayed  by  the  wanton  countryside,  seeking  to 
forget  all  the  fine  things  that  had  been  their  spring 
time  hope.  They  would  be  drifting  back  to  the 
mercenary  embraces  of  the  town,  like  embittered 
lovers  turning  to  the  husks  of  L',ed  caresses  for 
their  solace.  But  spring  would  come  again,  and 
all  the  old  hope  and  faith  and  courage  witji  it. 
Was  not  life,  after  all,  a  succession  of  springs  lumi 
nous  with  promise,  and  summers  whose  harvests 
must,  of  necessity,  fall  far  short  of  all  the  brave 
anticipations?  What  summer  could  possibly  yield 
the  marvelously  golden  fruits  of  spring's  devising? 

And,  thinking  of  these  things,  Claire  had  a  pas 
sionate  wish  that  spring  might  be  forever  stayed; 
that  life  might  be  a  keen,  virgin  hope,  unrealized, 
but  ever  ardent,  and  blinded  with  the  light  of  fancy. 

223 


CHAPTER  V 

CLAIRE  was  late  in  arriving  at  the  Cafe  Ithaca. 
But  in  the  excitement  of  preparing  a  feast  her 
absence  had  been  overlooked.  It  turned  out  that 
St.  George's  Day  was  a  very  special  day  indeed. 
Three  large  banquet-tables  had  been  set,  and  the 
general  public,  by  a  printed  sign  at  the  door,  re 
ceived  the  news  that  it  was  excluded. 

The  company  was  just  preparing  to  sit  down  as 
Claire  entered.  Concealed  by  the  folds  of  the  green 
curtain  which  screened  the  saloon,  she  stood  and 
glanced  curiously  about.  The  walls  had  been 
transformed  into  a  green  bower  of  wild  huckleberry, 
the  tables  strewn  with  fern  fronds  and  red  carna 
tions.  It  seemed  that  all  the  old  patrons  were 
there,  either  as  hosts  or  guests,  and  a  strange 
mixture  of  outsiders  had  been  bidden  to  the  feast. 
A  few  of  the  Greeks  who  had  married  American 
girls  had  brought  their  wives  with  them,  and,  of 
course,  among  the  strangers,  the  women  and  men 
were  about  evenly  divided.  A  Greek  orchestra  of 
three  pieces  was  tuning  up. 

"They  will  not  need  me !"  flashed  through  Claire's 
mind. 

She  felt  relieved.  All  at  once  it  seemed  quite 
impossible  for  her  to  face  this  assembly,  in  the 

224 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

bizarre  costume  which  had  tempted  her  beyond 
discretion.  As  she  stepped  aside,  Lycurgus  saw 
her.  He  inclined  his  head  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  heart.  It  was  plain  that  the  formality  of  the 
occasion  had  revived  his  old  manner. 

"Ah,  Miss  Robson!  I  have  been  waiting!" 
He  bowed  again  as  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry!  Shall  you  want  me  to  play? 
...  I  thought  perhaps  ..." 

"To  play?  .  .  .  You  are  not  to  play  to-night. 
This  is  my  name-day,  and  to-night  you  are  to  sit 
with  me." 

She  was  to  be  a  guest,  then!  A  feeling  of  swift 
pleasure  came  over  her  at  the  realization  that  these 
people  had  taken  thought  of  such  a  graceful 
courtesy. 

She  went  into  the  dressing-room  and  took  off 
her  wrap.  The  other  entertainers  had  been  in 
before  her  and  the  scraps  of  their  finery  were 
strewn  about,  a  powder-box  was  overturned,  a  jar 
of  lip  rouge  uncovered.  She  knew  that  Lycurgus 
was  waiting  for  her,  so  she  did  not  add  many 
calculated  touches  to  her  toilet ;  but  as  she  tucked 
a  strand  of  rebellious  hair  back  into  place  it  struck 
her  that  her  lips  were  somewhat  pale  for  so  vivid 
a  costume.  She  put  her  finger  into  the  rouge-pot 
and  deftly  drew  it  across  her  mouth.  Suddenly 
it  seemed  as  if  her  whole  personality  were  flaming. 
She  restrained  an  impulse  to  rub  her  lips  pale  again, 
and  she  went  into  the  cafe. 

It  was  Jimmy  who  first  saw  her.  He  was  carry 
ing  a  tray  of  mastieas  and  he  stopped  as  if  arrested 

225 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

by  an  apparition.     He  set  the  tray  down  upon 
a  serving-table,  and  said: 

"Whew,  Miss  Robson!  What  have  you  done? 
You  are  a  different  girl!  I  did  not  know  you. 
My,  but  the  other  women  will  be  sore!"  He 
chuckled  gleefully,  and  returned  to  his  task. 

At  this  moment  Lycurgus  came  up  to  her. 

"Miss  Robson!  .  .  .  Thank  you!  .  .  .  Thank 
you!  .  .  ."  he  kept  repeating,  in  almost  inarticu 
late  amazement.  "Come,  you  shall  sit  next  to 
me  now!" 

And  to  her  dismay  he  routed  out  his  intended 
guest  of  honor,  a  countryman  who  seemed  not  to 
mind  the  change  in  position  in  the  least,  and  set 
Claire  in  the  place  at  his  right. 

The  company  began  to  eat.  Claire  glanced 
about.  The  other  entertainers  were  sitting  at  a 
solitary  table  near  the  piano. 

1 '  Can  it  be  possible, "  thought  Claire,  * '  that  Lycur 
gus  expects  them  to  go  through  their  parts  to-night  ?*' 

Almost  at  once  her  query  was  answered,  for  the 
piano  tinkled  and  a  little  French  Jewess  named 
Doris,  a  new  acquisition,  got  up  and  began  to  sing. 
But  everybody  was  too  busy  eating  to  give  very 
much  attention  to  any  other  form  of  entertainment, 
and  the  song  ended  in  apathetic  fizzle.  Claire's 
hands  came  together  in  instinctive  applause.  This 
solitary  clapping  only  emphasized  the  general 
indifference,  and  Claire  was  rewarded  by  a  malig 
nant  glance  from  Doris  which  seemed  to  say: 

"You  don't  need  to  trouble  yourself  applauding 
me!  I  can  get  my  songs  over  without  your  help, 
thank  you!" 

226 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

When  the  Jewess  seated  herself  all  the  other 
entertainers  glared  at  Claire  also. 

"They're  hurt,"  said  Claire  to  herself  as  she 
dropped  her  eyes.  And  she  felt  the  same  regret 
she  had  experienced  on  the  night  when  Still- 
man  had  sent  orchids  to  her  and  ignored  Mrs. 
Condor. 

Presently  the  Greek  orchestra  started  up,  swing 
ing  into  a  brave  chanting  rhythm  that  started  the 
men  dancing.  At  first  there  were  but  three  dancers 
in  the  swaying  line,  but  gradually  the  list  grew  and 
soon  a  score  were  upon  their  feet.  The  music 
continued  with  hypnotic  monotony,  and  the  thread 
of  men  moved  through  the  growing  complications 
of  the  dance  like  a  gliding  serpent. 

Soup  was  brought  on;  the  music  stopped.  A 
general  scurry  took  place  as  the  men  scampered  to 
their  seats  again.  The  entertainers'  table  was 
animated  by  sneering  laughter.  After  the  soup, 
the  rag-time  orchestra  had  its  inning,  and  the  Amer 
icans  in  the  company  danced  with  an  air  of  sophisti 
cated  superiority.  Then  came  more  songs  from 
the  entertainers —  received  with  a  favor  and  warmth 
which  grew  as  the  dinner  progressed.  Thus  the 
events  of  the  evening  succeeded  one  another,  an 
incongruous  mixture  of  New  and  Old  World  cus 
toms  and  diversions. 

Claire  was  relieved  to  discover  that  no  one  ex 
pected  her  to  dance.  She  was  beginning  to  feel 
conscious  of  her  costume,  and  it  was  less  embar 
rassing  to  brave  the  thing  out  in  solitary  grandeur 
by  Lycurgus's,  side  than  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  entire  dancing-floor. 

227 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Lycurgus  beamed  upon  every  one  and  introduced 
Claire  to  all  comers  with  an  affectionate  enthu 
siasm.  Put  to  the  necessity  of  exercising  his 
English,  he  had  developed  quite  a  vocabulary  in 
the  last  few  weeks. 

"Ah,  this  is  my  friend,  Miss  Robson!"  he  would 
announce.  "Thank  you!  Thank  you!  She  has 
a  dress  made  just  for  this  .  .  .  my  name-day! 
And  so  I  sit  here  where  I  can  see  her  always.  .  .  . 
All  the  night!  She  is  a  girl,  I  can  tell  you!  In 
two  days  she  learns  the  Greek  hymn,  upon  the 
piano!  For  me,  mind  you!  For  me  and  no  one 
else!  .  .  .  And  you  should  hear  her  play  for  the 
dance.  .  .  .  Not  to-night!  No,  some  other  time! 
She  is  my  guest  to-night.  .  .  .  She  has  had  a  dress, 
yes,  sir  ...  yes,  sir — made  just  for  to-night.  She 
has  never  worn  it  before!  I  tell  you  I  am  some 
body.  Eh?  Thank  you!  Thank  you!" 

Claire  longed  to  escape,  to  hide  herself  in  some 
screened  corner.  Had  she  come  in  simpler  clothes 
she  would  have  found  Lycurgus 's  delight  childlike 
and  winning,  but  she  felt  embarrassed  under  the 
appraising  glances  which  his  words  called  forth. 
The  men  measured  her  with  frank  pleasure;  the 
women  with  cold,  disturbed  disapproval. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  green  curtains  parted,  and 
Danilo  came  in.  Claire  felt  a  sudden  faintness 
that  just  missed  being  nausea.  .  .  .  She  looked 
down  at  her  plate.  .  .  .  When  she  glanced  up 
again  Danilo  was  making  his  way  toward  some 
vacant  seats  at  one  of  the  side-tables,  and  Stillman 
was  following. 

"Ah!"  cried  Lycurgus.  "There  is  Danilo!  Ex- 
228 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

cuseme!  .  .  .  Thank  you!  Thank  you !"  and  with 
that  he  rose  and  rushed  over  to  Danilo. 

The  two  men  embraced,  kissing  each  other  on 
either  cheek.  Stillman  stood  apart,  a  thin,  tolerant 
smile  on  his  lips.  Claire  had  an  absurd  feeling  of 
wishing  to  fly  to  Danilo's  defense.  The  greeting 
over,  Lycurgus  drew  Danilo  to  one  side.  He 
pointed  in  Claire's  direction,  waving  his  hands  and 
chuckling  audibly.  He  was  telling  Danilo  about 
Claire's  dress.  She  blushed  and  tried  to  look  in 
another  direction;  but  as  her  gaze  hurriedly  swept 
the  room  for  an  object  on  which  to  fix  her  attention, 
she  became  aware  that  Stillman  was  looking  at 
her.  His  glance  was  not  startled,  nor  disturbed, 
nor  even  surprised.  Instead,  he  seemed  to  be 
looking  clear  through  her.  She  shivered,  and  un 
consciously  began  to  feel  about  her  shoulders  in 
a  futile  effort  to  locate  some  scrap  of  covering  with 
which  to  screen  her  bare  arms  and  breast.  She 
was  trembling  violently.  A  woman  sitting  opposite 
threw  her  a  crepe  scarf  with  an  air  of  triumph  that 
seemed  to  say: 

"Well,  you  can  see,  now,  what  comes  of  such 
foolishness  .  .  .  such  indecency!  You  might  have 
known  you  would  catch  cold." 

Claire  had  the  impulse  to  toss  the  proffered 
covering  back  to  its  owner,  but  she  took  it  meekly, 
instead. 

Stillman  slowly  withdrew  his  gaze.  Claire  trans 
ferred  her  glance  to  Danilo  and  Lycurgus.  The 
doctor  was  assenting  perfunctorily  to  his  friend's 
animated  harangue.  He  smiled  at  Claire,  but  she 
had  a  feeling  that  it  was  scarcely  a  smile  of  approval. 

229 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

She  lifted  the  scarf  above  her,  and  as  her  bare  arms 
stood  out  whitely  against  the  glare,  she  fancied 
that  she  saw  Stillman  turn  and  fix  her  with  a 
wounded,  almost  harried  stare.  Even  Danilo's 
pallid  smile  faded.  Claire  dropped  the  covering 
on  her  shoulders  and  her  arms  sank  down.  Danilo 
was  introducing  Stillman  to  Lycurgus.  Claire 
began  to  make  a  pretense  of  eating. 

"I  must  get  away  from  all  this!"  she  kept  repeat 
ing  to  herself,  as  she  thrust  the  food  between  her 
lips.  "I  must  get  away  from  this  life,  or  else  ..." 

And  suddenly  she  began  to  wonder  whether  her 
position  at  Flint's  was  still  open  to  her.  She  threw 
back  her  head  and  laughed  as  the  realization  of 
what  she  had  been  thinking  flashed  over  her. 
The  woman  who  had  loaned  her  the  scarf  stared. 
Claire  went  on  eating  more  calmly. 

She  kept  expecting  Danilo  to  bring  Stillman  over 
and  introduce  him.  A  feeling  of  curiosity  mingled 
with  fright  possessed  her.  But  as  the  evening 
progressed  it  became  apparent  that  this  part  of 
the  feast-day  was  the  men's  part.  Danilo  was 
being  constantly  caught  up  by  groups  of  his  male 
friends,  toasted  and  wined  and  embraced  with 
fervor.  As  for  Lycurgus,  he  did  not  return  to  his 
seat  after  greeting  Danilo,  and  Claire  discovered 
that  she  was  sitting  quite  alone — even  the  men 
on  her  left  had  deserted  the  table  for  the  noisier 
delights  of  the  barroom.  She  caught  glimpses 
of  Stillman,  mingling  perfunctorily  with  Danilo's 
comrades.  He  wore  his  thin,  tolerant  smile  during 
the  whole  evening.  Was  he  disgusted,  or  amused, 
or  merely  indulgent?  He  did  not  look  again  in 

230 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire's  direction.  She  felt  cold  and  sick  and 
miserable. 

Presently  she  saw  Danilo  come  out  of  the  tele 
phone-booth.  His  eyes  caught  hers  and  he  walked 
over  and  dropped  into  Lycurgus's  seat  beside  her. 

"I  wanted  you  to  meet  my  friend  .  .  .  but  now 
I  have  been  called  away  to  a  patient — a  dying 
woman.  Did  you  see  us  come  in  together?  I  am 
sure  he  thinks  this  all  very  queer." 

She  had  an  impulse  to  tell  him  then  that  she 
knew  Stillman  and  that  an  introduction  was  un 
necessary.  But  he  rose  quickly,  tossing  a  clean 
napkin  in  her  direction  as  he  said : 

"You  must  have  been  eating  cherries.  Your 
lips  are  all  red/' 

She  picked  up  the  napkin  and  covered  her  lips. 
She  had  never  been  so  humiliated  in  her  life.  He 
stood  watching  her  as  she  rubbed  her  mouth  clean 
again. 

"Ah,  now  you  look  better!"  he  said,  simply,  as 
she  tried  to  smile. 

He  said  good-by  and  left  her.  She  watched 
him  shake  hands  with  Stillman.  Evidently  Still 
man  had  decided  to  remain.  She  looked  down 
at  the  napkin  and  the  red  stain  upon  it.  The 
woman  opposite  her  was  eying  the  discarded  nap 
kin  with  a  look  of  contempt. 

Claire  heard  some  one  pull  back  the  chair  that 
Danilo  had  just  deserted.  She  looked  up.  Still 
man  was  sitting  down  beside  her.  At  this  mo 
ment  the  woman  opposite  rose. 

"Are  you  leaving?"  Claire  felt  herself  say. 

The  woman  nodded.  Claire  slowly  unwound  the 
231 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

scarf  from  her  shoulders  and  returned  it,  mur 
muring  her  thanks.  The  woman  left  the  table. 
Claire  could  feel  the  chill  of  Stillman's  glance 
sweeping  over  her  bare  shoulders  and  her  white 
breast.  When  he  spoke  she  felt  no  surprise  at 
his  words — she  knew  at  once  what  he  would  say. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here!" 

''I  thought  you  had  experience  enough  to  be 
prepared  for  anything!" 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Well,  there  are 
some  things  .  .  .  Are  you  a  guest?" 

Then  Danilo  had  not  spoken  of  her — pointed 
her  out!  .  .  .  She  toyed  with  a  fern  frond.  "For 
to-night,  only.  Otherwise  I  earn  my  living  here." 

He  was  ghastly  pale.     "Here?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  alarmed!  It's  respectable  enough. 
I  play  the  piano.  It  really  isn't  gay  at  all.  It's 
very  stupid  and  dull  when  you  get  used  to  it." 

She  was  conscious  that  her  tone  was  hard-lipped, 
playing  up  to  her  costume. 

"Every  night?  Is  it  possible  that  you  come 
here  every  night,  in  this  kind  of  a  place,  and  play? 
.  .  .  Good  God!  No  wonder  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  swept  her  again.  She  dropped  her 
glance. 

"No  wonder  you  can  dress  yourself  in  this 
fashion!"  was  what  she  knew  he  meant  to  imply. 
She  threw  back  her  head  defiantly. 

"You're  mistaken,"  she  said,  coldly.  "These 
people  are  very  good  to  me.  As  for  playing  the 
piano  .  .  .  well,  I've  done  that  before.  Only,  then 
I  was  exhibited  on  a  raised  platform!" 

She  knew  that  every  word  was  wounding  him, 
232 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

and  yet  she  could  not  alter  her  mood.     She  was 
heart-sick,  and  defiant,  and  bitter. 

"And  do  you  think  that  all  this  is  quite  fair 
to  ...  to  your  friends?" 

"I  have  to  earn  my  living,  don't  I?" 

He  brushed  a  cigarette  stub  off  the  table. 
"Last  month  I  made  a  fortune.  I  cleaned  up 
something  over  a  million  dollars.  And  still  I  must 
sit  here  and  watch  .  .  .  watch  these  Greeks  fling 
money  in  your  face!" 

He  swept  the  room  with  an  angry  gesture. 
Claire  followed  the  swift  flight  of  his  hand.  One 
of  the  entertainers  had  finished  singing  and  the 
usual  shower  of  coins  was  falling  on  the  hard  floor. 
His  lips  were  quivering  with  indignation. 

"Oh,  Tm  not  a  favorite!  They  don't  bombard 
me  in  any  such  fashion.  Once  in  a  while,  perhaps, 
but  ..."  She  raised  her  hands  slightly. 

"Once  in  a  while!"  he  echoed,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"Then  they  do  throw  money  at  you!  You  .  .  . 
you  take  all  this  from  strangers,  but  from  me  .  .  . 
from  me,  who  ..."  He  brought  his  fist  down 
upon  the  table. 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his.  "I  give  these  people 
pleasure  and  they  repay  me  as  they  can.  .  .  .  There 
is  one  thing  about  &  flung  coin — it  is  frank  and  open 
and  honest." 

He  glanced  down.  "And  insulting,  too,"  he 
muttered.  "God  knows  there  have  been  times 
enough  when  I  forgot  myself.  ...  I'm  a  man, 
after  everything  is  said  and  done.  The  mistakes 
I  made  were  never  deliberate  .  .  .  calculating. 
I  did  want  to  serve  you!" 
16  233 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"What  did  you  expect  me  to  do?"  she  asked, 
more  gently. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  fancy  it  was  almost 
anything  but  this.  It  seems  that  almost  anything 
else  would  be  better." 

"Even  taking  dictation  from  Flint?" 

He  winced. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  she  went 
on,  passionately.  "You're  thinking  that  it  is  this 
life  that  has  given  me  the  courage  to  be  hard  and 
bitter — to  dress  myself  in  this  ...  to  paint  my 
lips  red."  She  held  up  the  rouge-stained  napkin 
and  shrugged.  "But  you  forget  Flint  and  Mrs. 
Condor  and  all  the  nastiness  of  the  life  that  you 
seem  to  think  desirable  simply  because  it  is  famil 
iar.  ...  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  it  now  even  if  I 
could.  I'd  rather  take  a  chance  here  where  they 
throw  money  frankly  in  your  face  and  then 
promptly  forget  about  it;  where  they  don't  demand 
anything  of  you  beyond  just  the  passing  moment. 
Where  one  hasn't  any  standards  to  live  up  to  and 
cheat  for.  Yes,  cheat  for!  Not  that  these  people 
haven't  standards — they're  full  of  them.  But  they 
don't  expect  me  to  live  up  to  them.  I  can  be  as 
virtuous  or  as  immoral  as  I  choose.  They  are 
willing  to  leave  my  soul  in  my  own  keeping!" 

He  shaded  his  face.  "Just  think,"  he  said,  as 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  again.  "I  made  a  million 
dollars  last  month,  and  I  am  moi*e  helpless  than 
the  meanest  person  here  with  ten  cents  in  his 
pocket.  If  I  were  poor  and  miserable  and  strug 
gling,  I  could  at  least  come  and  sit  opposite  you 
and  throw  my  last  penny  at  you.  I  could  throw 

234 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

my  last  coin  at  your  feet  and  go  away  happy, 
knowing  that  I  must  starve  to-morrow,  be 
cause  of  you.  Why  is  it  that  others  may  do 
what  I—" 

She  stopped  him  with  a  quick  gesture.  "You 
know  why,"  she  said,  simply. 

He  drew  back  as  if  she  had  dealt  him  a  blow  in 
the  face.  Claire  felt  an  impulse  to  rise  and  flee. 
Her  defiance  had  spent  itself  and  she  was  growing 
weak  and  tremulous.  She  glanced  about — Ly- 
curgus  was  coming  toward  them. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Stillman— thank  you!  Thank  you!" 
Lycurgus's  voice  rang  out  across  the  table.  ' '  I  see 
you  are  here  .  .  .  with  Miss  Robson.  Did  you 
see  her  dress?  For  me  .  .  .  she  wears  this  dress 
just  for  me  to-night,  because  it  is  my  name-day. 
She  has  never  worn  it  before.  She  is  some  girl,  I 
can  tell  you!"  Suddenly  he  bent  across  the  table 
and,  laying  his  hand  upon  Claire's  cold  fingers,  he 
ran  his  palm  the  full  length  of  her  arm. 

She  shook  him  off  as  she  rose.  But  he  con 
tinued  to  smile  with  wine-heated  indulgence.  ' '  For 
me,"  he  repeated  again.  "She  wears  this  beautiful 
dress  for  me  only!" 

Claire  glanced  down  at  Stillman.  His  face  was 
gray,  his  hands  clenched  at  his  side.  Lycurgus 
moved  away. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  to  Stillman. 

He  roused  himself.  "Then  you  are  going?  .  .  . 
Which  way?  ...  I  have  my  car  here." 

"Some  other  time,"  she  repeated,  mechanically. 
' '  I  am  not  afraid.  I  do  this  every  night,  you  must 
remember." 

235 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  stood  up.  "I  should  be  very  glad  indeed, 
but  if  you  do  not  ..." 

"No,  I  would  rather  be  alone." 

He  bowed.     "And  your  mother — how  is  she?" 

"A  little  better,  thank  you.  We  have  a  new 
doctor." 

"Is  that  so?    Remember  me  to  her,  will  you?" 

She  said  good  night  again,  and  escaped.  The 
dressing-room  was  crowded  with  women.  Claire 
found  her  coat  and  scarf ;  she  stepped  out  into  the 
cafe  and  slipped  them  on.  Stillman  had  gone. 

The  Greek  orchestra  had  started  another  tune 
and  Lycurgus  was  leading  the  dance,  this  time  with 
great  animation.  Claire  left  unnoticed  by  the  side 
door.  The  night  air  was  still  sharp  and  rather 
cutting,  and  the  stars  twinkled  brilliantly  over 
head.  The  chill  had  driven  most  people  indoors. 
Third  Street  was  as  good  as  deserted. 

She  felt  very  cold,  and  she  decided  not  to  walk 
to  Market  Street,  but  to  take  a  car.  Her  spangled 
dress  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  heavy.  She 
longed  to  throw  herself  prone  upon  her  narrow  bed 
and  let  the  dull  longing  at  her  heart  escape  in  a 
flood  of  tears.  .  .  . 

She  crawled  up  the  long  flight  of  stairs  to  her 
cheerless  home.  The  stillness  was  broken  by  the 
faint  breathing  of  the  little  faded  seamstress  and 
the  heavy  snores  of  her  mother.  She  caught  the 
flicker  of  a  light  from  the  dining-room.  She  tiptoed 
toward  it.  The  tiny  lamp  before  Danilo's  icon 
was  still  burning  fitfully.  She  stepped  into  the 
room.  Something  mysterious  and  peaceful  seemed 
to  flood  her  soul. 

236 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Danilo?  .  .'.  Until  this  moment  she  had  not 
thought  of  him.  Here  upon  the  table  lay  the 
simple  flowers  that  he  had  plucked  for  his  feast. 
She  bent  over  to  smell  them.  They  were  full  of 
wild,  uncultured  perfume. 

And  suddenly  his  face  rose  before  her  and  she 
heard  the  precise  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  had  said : 

''You  must  have  been  eating  cherries.  Your 
lips  are  red." 

She  tossed  aside  her  coat  and  her  lace  scarf,  and 
her  imprisoned  hair  came  trembling  in  a  wayward 
flood  about  her  shoulders. 

She  sat  down  before  the  table  and  clasped  her 
hands.  In  the  dimness  the  holy  image  seemed  to 
grow  palpitant  and  alive.  Hot  tears  were  gather 
ing  in  her  eyelashes.  She  bowed  her  head. 

The  light  in  the  lamp  gave  one  brave  flicker  and 
went  out.  Claire  Robson  dropped  her  head  upon 
the  table  and  sobs  shook  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Stillman  turned 
his  car  about  and  began  to  return  to  San  Fran 
cisco.  He  did  not  feel  tired,  but  he  was  chilled 
through.  About  him,  in  the  faint  mist  of  early 
dawn,  the  prune-orchards  of  the  Santa  Clara  Valley 
stretched  out  in  faintly  green  lines  toward  the  foot 
hills. 

He  had  a  sudden  longing  for  companionship. 
If  only  Danilo  were  there  to  flame  him  with  vicari 
ous  enthusiasm!  Danilo!  .  .  .  What  was  there 
about  Danilo  that  never  failed  to  melt  the  cold 
forms  of  indifference  and  weary  contempt?  Was 
it  the  man  himself,  his  intensity  for  a  cause,  or  the 
mere  novelty  of  the  unique  atmosphere  which  he 
radiated  that  had  tempted  Stillman  beyond  the 
pale  boundaries  of  a  formal  acquaintanceship? 
Last  night's  celebration,  for  instance,  had  held 
very  little  that  was  traditionally  appealing  to  a 
man  of  Stillman 's  upbringing,  and  yet  he  had  been 
tricked  into  accepting  the  curious  forms  through 
which  a  totally  strange  people  expressed  them 
selves.  In  his  travels  abroad  he  had  always  en 
joyed  the  spectacle  of  foreign  life,  but  he  had 
scarcely  felt  any  desire  to  enter  into  it.  He  found 
the  position  of  onlooker  agreeable,  and  he  was  not 

238 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

indifferent  to  the  merit  of  other  traditions,  but  he 
had  lacked  the  naivete  to  surrender  to  their  spell. 
When  he  was  with  Danilo  it  was  different;  the 
Serbian  seemed  to  be  a  crucible  which  fused  the 
most  diverse  elements,  investing  everything  in  life 
with  simplicity  and  coherence.  In  Danilo's  pres 
ence  Stillman  found  himself  capable  of  the  most 
amazing  confidences.  He  could  speak  out  boldly 
about  his  hopes,  his  fears,  even  his  shortcomings. 
He  could  discuss  the  magnitude  of  his  fortune, 
his  carefully  guarded  indiscretions,  his  domestic 
tragedy. 

And  now,  at  this  moment,  as  Stillman  rode  back 
to  San  Francisco  in  the  faintly  spreading  dawn,  he 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  if  Danilo  had  been  at  his 
side  he  would  have  poured  out  his  soul  and  yielded 
up  the  most  precious  secret  of  his  heart.  Well, 
perhaps  it  was  best  that  Danilo  was  safely  out  of 
range.  It  was  not  that  he  felt  any  precise  mistrust 
concerning  Danilo;  all  his  uncertainty  had  to  do 
with  the  strange,  hard,  coldly  flaming  Claire  that 
he  had  glimpsed  in  that  terrible  moment  when  he 
had  first  come  upon  her,  seated  next  to  Lycurgus 
at  the  Cafe  Ithaca.  He  had  never  felt  so  impotent, 
so  helpless  as  he  had  felt  at  that  moment.  He 
remembered,  now,  every  detail  of  her  costume: 
the  blue-green  iridescence  that  ran  through  every 
palpitation  of  her  figure,  the  black,  sinister  patch 
near  her  eye,  the  brilliant  red  of  her  lips.  And 
against  all  this  color  the  amazing  whiteness  of  her 
tapering  arms  had  stood  out  too  clearly.  He  had 
sean  her  arms  bared  before,  to  the  elbow,  but  never 
boldly  stripped  clear  to  the  shoulders.  And  her 

239 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

hair — that  hair  which  always  had  graced  her  head 
with  such  unaffected  artlessness — she  seemed  sud 
denly  to  have  found  the  need  to  overdo,  to  strain 
for  effective  simplicity.  Her  words  to  him  had  not 
helped  matters.  It  was  not  the  memory  of  her 
defiance  that  left  him  cold;  it  was  the  indifference 
in  her  voice  that  froze  his  heart.  She  was  in 
different — she  no  longer  cared! 

He  began  now  to  feel  not  only  cold,  but  weary. 
What  had  possessed  him  to  leave  the  Cafe  Ithaca 
and  flee  down  the  peninsula  like  a  thief  in  the  night  ? 
To  ride  .  .  .  ride  furiously,  madly,  that  had  been 
his  first  impulse.  Just  motion!  It  seemed  that 
he  could  find  no  other  outlet  for  his  tumult.  But 
now  trie  leaping  flames  of  emotion  had  died.  He 
was  burned  out. 

The  dawn  grew  rosier;  meadowlarks  began  to 
sing;  groups  of  blackbirds  rose  in  ardent,  wheel 
ing  flights.  The  mist  upon  the  hills  parted  and 
revealed  pastoral  secrets.  But  all  this  full-blooded 
pageantry  left  him  unmoved. 

He  thought  about  his  wife;  not  indirectly,  eva 
sively,  as  had  been  his  habit,  but  with  ruthless 
honesty.  The  bulletins  from  the  sanatorium  had 
grown  less  hopeful.  Still,  there  was  always  the 
possibility  that  the  mental  fog  would  clear  and  leave 
her  at  the  mercy  of  a  wan  sanity.  Stillman  could 
imagine  nothing  more  terrible  than  this  return  to 
a  chill,  stark  reason.  It  would  be  as  if  some  smiling 
hillside  had  paid  the  toll  of  a  devastating  freshet, 
and  was  left  a  scarred  and  naked  waste  that  a  be 
lated  sun  could  never  clothe  again.  And  always 
there  would  be  the  sleeping  and  waking  fear  that 

240 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  torrents  would  descend  again  with  even  greater 
fury.  Now,  at  least,  she  had  the  warmth  of  her 
hallucinations  to  make  life  tolerable.  What  would 
be  left  her  when  these  mirages  melted  into  the  dreary 
void  of  actual  life  ?  .  .  .  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
Stillman  that  reality  was  the  greatest  of  all  trage 
dies  to  face.  The  visions  of  youth,  the  ecstasies 
of  the  witless,  the  crooning  dreams  of  old  age — 
how  they  softened  the  relentless  glare  of  things 
as  they  were!  How  they  lured  the  traveler  past 
the  soul-killing  monotonies,  the  bleak  disillusion- 
ments ! 

He  left  the  orchards  behind,  and  came  into  the 
region  of  pretty,  artless  homes  surrounded  by  gar 
dens  spilling  their  fragrance  into  the  lap  of  morning. 
To  the  west  the  land  dimpled  with  laughing  hills, 
green  and  tremulous  in  the  young  light.  Eucalyp 
tus-trees  bent  gravely  in  the  chance  breezes  or  stood 
erectly  still  where  the  calm  of  dawn  remained  in 
violate.  Stillman  received  the  impression  of  nat 
ure's  calm  contentment  and  took  issue  with  it. 
He  was  in  no  mood  to  be  snared  by  the  false  promise 
of  morning. 

He  began  now  to  think  about  himself,  and  im 
mediately  all  his  raillery  at  fate  died.  What  had 
he  ever  done  to  prove  his  claim  to  happiness? 
Had  he  ever  wrestled  with  God  for  a  blessing? 
He  thought  of  Danilo,  remembering  all  the  details 
of  the  doctor's  hard-fisted  battle  with  circum 
stances — starving  days,  shivering  nights.  There 
must  be  a  full-blooded  joy  in  giving  fate  blow  for 
blow;  in  having  to  fight  for  every  narrow  foothold 
upon  the  ledge  of  fortune!  Well,  the  heights  had 

241 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

been  his  without  the  toil  of  scaling,  and  he  had 
looked  down  upon  the  promised  land  with  indiffer 
ence.  What  had  he  been  doing  all  these  years,  all 
these  months,  all  these  weeks?  He  had  done  his 
duty,  perhaps;  but  scarcely  more.  Widows  who 
cast  their  mite  into  the  Lord's  treasury  did  this 
much.  He  had  never  thought  of  spilling  the  wine 
from  his  brimming  cup  upon  the  parched  lips  of 
the  thirsty,  and  he  had  measured  the  meal  of  obli 
gation  with  too  finely  balanced  a  scale.  Now  had 
come  a  time  when  his  greatest  wish  was  to  be 
prodigal,  and  the  hands  that  should  have  received 
his  outpouring  were  tied  grimly.  What  would  not 
he  have  given  to  see  the  fruits  of  his  inheritance 
replenishing  the  scant  store  of  the  woman  he  loved ! 
And  yet,  as  he  had  said,  the  veriest  beggar  could 
do  more — could  fling  his  penny  at  the  feet  of  Claire 
Robson  and  go  on  his  starving  way  with  a  smile. 
Perhaps  a  man  more  trained  in  outwitting  circum 
stances  would  have  found  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty, 
but  Stillman  could  see  only  blind  alleys  leading 
from  every  desire  of  his  heart.  .  .  .  Danilo's  ar 
dent  face  rose  before  him.  Here  was  a  man  who 
could  no  doubt  feel  the  ecstasy  of  personal  passion 
and  yet  have  abundant  thrill  for  bigger  things. 
He  had  conquered  a  profession  and  now  he  was  to 
surrender  to  the  outpouring  of  the  spirit  upon  the 
altars  of  his  native  land.  His  native  land!  Just  what 
did  an  expression  like  this  mean  to  Ned  Stillrnan? 
— a  smiling  country  untouched  by  the  stress  of  nat 
ure,  and  only  remotely  disturbed  by  the  grim  expe 
diency  of  war;  a  sky-blue  birthright  that  yielded  up 
the  easy  harvests  which  had  reduced  him  to  such 

242 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

sleek  impotence.  He  felt  suddenly  tricked,  cheated, 
as  one  does  who  looks  back  upon  indulgent  parents 
with  a  feeling  of  accusing  scorn.  Danilo's  native 
land  had  made  demands,  forced  the  chains  of  loy 
alty  in  the  white-heated  fires  of  necessity.  Danilo 
loved  his  Serbia  because  he  had  wept  with  her — 
because  the  claims  of  mutual  tears  are  stronger 
than  the  claims  of  mutual  laughter.  Stillman  felt 
loyal  to  the  land  of  his  birth.  And  he  had  worked 
hard,  too.  He  had  made  sacrifices,  of  a  kind,  and 
he  was  prepared  to  do  more.  Yes,  he  would  go 
the  limit  .  .  .  the  absolute  limit.  He  had  every 
reason  to  be  grateful  for  his  inheritance,  and  yet, 
Danilo,  penniless  and  tempered  in  the  fires  of  a 
frugal  birthright,  had  the  best  of  the  bargain.  .  .  . 

Stillman  was  nearing  San  Francisco  now.  The 
landscape  had  the  moth-eaten  look  that  landscapes 
do  when  they  make  the  transition  from  country 
side  to  paved  streets.  But  at  least  the  morning 
air  was  still  fresh,  as  yet  unpolluted  by  the  foul 
breath  of  drudgery  and  toil.  He  began  to  wonder 
vaguely  whether  Danilo  would  be  stirring  so  early. 
He  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  see  him.  Well,  why 
not?  He  remembered  the  doctor's  address — a 
cheap  lodging-house  on  Third  Street.  He  had 
never  favored  Danilo  before  with  a  visit.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  burst  in  upon  a  man  at  the  ungodly  hour 
of  six  o'clock.  But  he  had  a  wish  to  outrage  his 
own  sense  of  conventionality. 

He  found  Danilo  up  and  stirring.  The  room  was 
clean  and  unincumbered  with  personal  effects.  A 
few  photographs  upon  the  bureau,  a  panorama 
of  Belgrade,  an  American  and  a  Serbian  flag  inter- 

243 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

twined — these  were  all  the  evidences  of  occupation. 
Danilo  himself  was  in  a  gay-flowered  dressing-gown 
and  he  moved  toward  the  door  with  a  graceful 
gliding  movement  as  he  said: 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you  look  ill!  What  can 
be  the  matter?" 

Stillman  sank  into  a  chair.  It  had  needed  just 
this  word  of  sympathy  to  upset  his  poise  utterly. 

''I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "I  felt  suddenly 
dizzy  when  I  opened  the  door.  Forgive  me  for 
breaking  in  on  you  at  such  an  hour!" 

Danilo  answered  with  a  laugh,  and  brought  out 
cigarettes.  Stillman  took  one.  They  began  to 
smoke. 

"I  can't  think  what  is  the  matter  with  me," 
Stillman  began,  awkwardly. 

Danilo  seated  himself.  "I  can.  You're  in  love. 
You  are  afraid  to  talk  about  it.  ...  Ah  yes,  I 
knew  that  I  was  not  wrong!  You  are  blushing 
like  a  school-boy.  Tell  me,  what  is  her  name?" 

Stillman  breathed  heavily.     He  made  no  answer. 

Danilo  rose.  "Ah,  my  friend,  forgive  me!"  he 
said,  quickly.  "I  didn't  realize  it  was  .  .  ." 

Stillman  made  a  little  gesture  of  "appeal.  "I 
didn't  myself  until  .  .  .  God,  it's  all  so  horrible!" 

"Your  wife,  you  mean?  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  there 
could  be  a  way  out." 

"No,  there's  no  way  out!  .  .  .  What  would  you 
do  if  you  saw  the  woman  you  loved  going  down  .  .  . 
down  .  .  .  down,  and  you  were  powerless  to  save 
her?" 

"A  question  of  money  or  morals?" 

"Money  first  of  all  ..." 
244 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

4 'That  ought  not  to  be  much  of  a  problem  in 
your  case." 

"Ah,  you  don't  understand!  Oh  no!  can't  you 
see-?  In  this  case  it  would  be  impossible!" 

"Then  it  is  a  question  of  morals.  ...  I  know. 
Sometimes  these  things  happen — how  do  you  say 
it? — in  the  best  of  regulated  families.  If  I  were 
in  your  position  and  it  happened  to  the  woman  .  .  . 
Well,  in  my  country  it  is  all  very  simple.  We  call 
the  man  out  and  shoot  him.  Here  ...  I  suppose 
here  you  tell  your  troubles  to  a  policeman,  do  you 
not?" 

Stillman  darted  a  swift,  searching  look  at  Danilo. 

"Not  always.  .  .  .  Sometimes  we  commit  the 
indiscretion  of  telling  our  friends." 

Danilo  rose  quickly.  He  went  over  and  put  his 
hand  caressingly  on  Stillman's  shoulder. 

"Indiscretion,  my  brother?"  he  queried.  "Ah, 
you  do  not  know  me,  even  yet!  Well,  we  are 
companions  in  misery,  if  it  comes  to  that.  But  in 
my  case  I  do  not  think  I  shall  need  the  pistol.  I 
shall  marry  the  girl.  And  that  will  end  everything. ' ' 

Stillman  pressed  Danilo's  hand.  "A  girl  of  your 
own  people?" 

"No — one  of  your  American  girls.  .  .  .  Some 
day,  when  it  is  all  settled,  I  shall  invite  you  to  meet 
her.  ...  I  came  very  near  letting  you  see  her  last 
night.  But  it  happened  otherwise,  and  I  am  as 
well  pleased."  He  laughed,  showing  his  teeth 
pleasantly.  "I  do  not  want  you  as  a  rival,  my 
brother.  That  would  be  a  nasty  business  between 
friends." 

Stillman  rose.  "My  dear  Danilo,  I  wish  you 
245 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

every  happiness,"  he  said.  He  wanted  to  say  more, 
to  sound  a  warmer  note,  but  the  words  would  not 
shape  themselves.  But  Danilo  seemed  to  divine 
his  intent. 

"And  you,  brother.  .  .  .  No,  I  shall  not  mock 
you  with  a  return  of  the  compliment.  But  I  shall 
hope  that  it  will  all  come  right  for  you,  somehow. 
That  this  woman  you  love  shall  be  worthy  of  a 
good  man.  At  least,  then  you  will  have  your 
faith.  Cold  comforts  are  better  than  none  at  all!" 

Stillman  smiled  grayly.  "And  what  is  to  be 
come  of  the  Serbian  project,  now  that  you  are  to 
be  .  .  ." 

' '  My  dear  fellow,  marriage  is  not  the  end  of  every 
thing.  A  man  still  has  his  duties — his  enthusiasms ! 
Everything  will  go  on  as  I  have  planned  it." 

"You  said  she  was  an  American.  ...  Perhaps 
she  will  object  to  being  left.  ..." 

"Left?  .  .  .  Why,  she  will  go  with  me!  Re 
member,  I  am  marrying  a  wife,  and,  naturally, 
a  wife  does  what  her  husband — " 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course!  That  goes  without 
saying."  Stillman  laughed  disagreeably.  "Really, 
I  must  be  running  along.  I  am  tired.  I  have  been 
riding  all  night." 

"I  am  afraid  my  name-day  celebration  was  dis 
turbing,"  Danilo  said,  giving  Stillman  his  hand. 

"Life  is  so  full  of  unexpected  turns,"  Stillman 
ventured  as  he  swung  open  the  door.  "I  didn't 
think  that  your  life  and  my  life  were  touched  by 
the  same  currents." 

"Are  they?" 

"Remotely  ...  by  the  merest  chance." 
246 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Danilo  looked  puzzled.  "Chance  is  like  a  deep 
pool;  you  never  know  what  ghastly  thing  it  will 
yield  up." 

Stillman  narrowed  his  eyes.  He  began  to  re 
member  things.  Again  he  heard  the  sharp  slam 
of  a  taxi  door,  again  he  felt  his  cheeks  burn  as  he 
leaned  forward  to  pick  up  his  hat,  again  he  laid  an 
inquisitive  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  slim,  beetle- 
browed  figure  standing  with  one  finger  upon  the 
call-bell  of  an  elevator.  And  again  that  figure 
turned,  fixing  him  with  a  red-lipped  smile.  .  .  . 
Yes,  at  this  moment,  standing  before  Danilo,  it  all 
came  back. 

1  'An  American  girl.  ...  So  he  is  to  marry  an 
American  girl!  ...  I  wonder  if  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  he  felt  the  hot  coals  of  smolder 
ing  lawlessness  flare  within  him.  But  a  chill  fol 
lowed  ...  a  bleak,  dead,  lifeless  chill  of  resigna 
tion.  He  put  out  his  hand. 

"I  hope  everything  good  for  you,  my  friend," 
he  said,  sadly.  "Everything  good  for  you  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  this  woman  you  are  to  marry." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"TT  is  as  I  thought  ...  he  is  in  love.     He  ad- 

1  mitted  as  much  to  me  this  morning.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  think  of  him?" 

Danilo,  standing  before  the  kitchen  window  of 
the  Robson  home,  looked  out  across  the  dreary 
stretch  of  back  yards  and  dizzy  back  stairways. 

Claire  stopped  folding  a  dish-towel  as  she  gave 
Danilo  a  sharp  glance.  Here  was  the  opportunity 
that  she  had  longed  for.  Now  she  could  tell  him 
simply  and  naturally  that  she  had  seen  Stillman 
before,  that  she  knew  him,  had  worked  for  him,  in 
fact.  But,  instead,  a  sudden  awkward  silence 
fell.  .  .  .  Something  at  once  definite  and  intangible 
had  come  between  these  two. 

Danilo  fingered  his  hat  and  remembered  a  press 
ing  engagement. 

Claire  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"My  patient  died  last  night — the  old  woman  I 
was  called  away  to  attend.  I  thought  of  you  all 
the  while,  wondering  how  you  would  get  home. 
Indeed,  at  one  o'clock  I  went  back  for  you,  but  you 
had  gone." 

"That  was  very  kind,"  Claire  returned,  still 
moved  by  a  vague  resentment.  "I  got  home  as 
usual  ...  on  the  street-car.  I  do  it  nearly  every 
night,  you  know." 

248 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Danilo  looked  at  her  squarely.  "But  last  night 
was  different.  You — you — well,  to  be  frank,  you 
were  not  dressed  for  the  street." 

She  had  been  expecting  some  such  thing  and 
she  decided  to  meet  the  issue  nonchalantly.  "Oh, 
but  you  didn't  see  me  leave !  I  was  the  most  dowdy 
and  respectable  thing  imaginable.  A  shabby  coat 
and  a  dingy  lace  scarf  work  wonders.  I  assure 
you  nobody  looked  twice  at  me." 

Danilo  frowned,  and  he  stepped  back  upon  the 
threshold  as  he  said: 

"Nobody  would  have  looked  at  you  even  once 
if  I  had  been  along.  ...  I  do  not  want  you  to 
dress  again  as  you  did  last  night." 

"No?"  she  gasped. 

"No.  It  makes  me  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  you 
would  not  understand,  now.  But  later — later  you 
will  see  why  I  take  the  trouble.  ...  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  would  have  brought  my  friend  Stillman 
over  to  meet  you,  but  I  decided  to  wait  for  another 
time  .  .  .  when  you  were  more  like  yourself.  I 
wanted  him  to  see  you  at  your  best.  ...  I  hope 
my  words  do  not  offend  you.  But  you  have  no 
brother  and  ..." 

He  finished  with  a  shrug.  His  words  did  not  of 
fend  her — they  struck  deeper,  so  deep  that  all  her 
pride  rose  to  meet  the  issue  with  a  smiling  accept 
ance  of  his  rebuke.  "Offended?  Oh,  my  dear,  no! 
You  are  frank  about  it,  at  all  events."  She  forced 
a  laugh.  "I  shall  try  to  be  good  in  the  future." 

He  did  not  succumb  to  her  strained  mirth.     He 
merely  looked  at  her  with  a  note  almost  disapprov 
ing  as  he  gravely  said  good-by. 
17  249 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

She  went  up-stairs  into,  her  mother's  room. 
Mrs.  Robson  sat  propped  up  in  the  position  that 
Claire  always  helped  her  assume  for  the  doctor's 
daily  visit.  Mrs.  Robson's  dull  eyes  brightened. 
She  began  her  illusive  mumblings.  Claire  dropped 
at  attentive  ear  to  her  mother's  words. 

"The  doctor,"  Mrs.  Robson  was  saying,  "he 
should  not  come  every  day.  It — it  is  too  expensive." 

"I  am  not  paying  him,  mother." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  Then  he  is  not  coming  to  see  me?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  is  coming  to  see  you,  mother! 
What  else  would  ..." 

Mrs.  Robson  shook  her  head.  "I've  been  think 
ing,  Claire.  ...  Of  course,  he  is  not  just  what  I 
had  hoped.  .  .  .  But  he  is  a  kind  man,  Claire. 
I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  ..." 

She  tried  to  lift  her  helpless  hands  and  draw  her 
daughter's  head  toward  her  lips.  Claire  met  the 
effort  half-way. 

"He  is  a  kind  man,  Claire,  a  kind  man,"  Mrs. 
Robson  kept  repeating. 

Claire's  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap. 

"We  shall  see,  mother.     We  shall  see." 


One  night  toward  the  end  of  the  week  Claire 
Robson  had  a  surprise.  In  the  midst  of  all  the 
cut-to-measure  gaiety  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca  who  should 
walk  in  the  side  door  but  Sawyer  Flint.  Claire 
stared  frankly.  Instinctively  Flint  fell  back  with 
a  quick  screening  movement,  not  only  obvious, 
but  futile.  His  companion  proved  to  be  Lily 
Condor.  Claire,  who  was  sitting  idly  at  the  piano, 

250 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

turned  away  her  head  and  began  to  play.  The 
spectacle  of  Flint  and  Mrs.  Condor  together  was  not 
unexpected ;  Nellie  Whitehead  had  brought  her  the 
news  of  this  latest  alliance  not  two  weeks  before. 

"They  go  poking  about  to  all  the  cheap  joints 
where  they're  sure  nobody  will  get  a  line  on  them. 
Billy  Holmes  and  I  saw  them  at  the  Fior  d' Italia 
last  Saturday." 

Nellie  Whitehead  had  said  other  things,  too, 
complimentary  to  neither  her  former  employer 
nor  his  latest  boon  companion.  .  .  . 

Claire  did  not  look  up  again  until  she  had  finished 
the  piece  she  was  playing.  Flint  and  Lily  Condor 
had  retreated  to  an  obscure  corner  where  they 
seemed  to  be  sitting  in  rather  furtive  discomfort. 
Claire  was  human  enough  to  enjoy  her  triumph. 
She  knew  that  the  two  were  taking  mental  stock 
of  the  defenses  that  they  might  be  called  upon 
to  use. 

Mrs.  Condor  looked  older;  her  hair  was  losing 
its  luster,  and  her  complexion  showed  unmistakable 
first-aid  signs.  There  were  about  her  mouth,  too, 
lines  of  spiritual  rather  than  of  physical  fag,  fore 
runners  of  a  complete  let-down.  Claire  could  but 
feel  a  measure  of  pity  for  this  woman.  She  knew 
enough  to  realize  that  in  accepting  the  attentions 
of  Sawyer  Flint  Lily  Condor  had  reached  the 
ghastly  plains  of  unrestrained  compromise.  At 
least  there  had  been  always  something  bold  and 
arresting  about  Mrs.  Condor's  indiscretions;  she 
had  not  been  given  to  shielding  her  improprieties 
behind  the  screen  of  cheap  delights.  She  reminded 
Claire  of  some  harried  animal  snatching  joys  at 

25* 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  expense  of  security.  After  Flint  washed  his 
hands  of  her,  what  then? 

Flint  was  making  compromises,  too.  Lily  Con 
dor  was  not  the  woman  he  would  have  picked  for 
a  dining  companion  if  the  field  had  been  open  to 
his  choice.  Flint  liked  to  exhibit  his  quarry  rather 
openly  and  with  a  swagger.  But  Lily  was  no  con 
quest  to  brag  of,  and  Claire  could  see  that  already 
his  attitude  was  anything  but  deferential.  She 
had  a  feeling  that  Mrs.  Condor  would  have  been 
willing  to  take  the  chance  of  dining  with  Sawyer 
Flint  in  the  fashionable  restaurants  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  and  that  these  shifts  to  less  smart  entertain 
ments  were  more  a  matter  of  Flint's  lack  of  pride 
in  his  adventure  rather  than  his  companion's  desire 
to  be  furtive.  And  as  for  the  discretion  of  sneak 
ing  in  and  out  of  badly  lighted  side  entrances 
— even  this  was  questionable.  After  all,  Flint  and 
Lily  Condor  could  have  played  an  open  game  to 
much  better  purpose,  and  Claire  was  sensible  that 
they  both  were  aware  "of  this  fact — the  lady  to  her 
inward  chagrin. 

Flint  ordered  a  salad  and  then  rose  and  went 
out  into  the  barroom.  Mrs.  Condor,  divesting 
herself  of  wraps,  deliberately  caught  Claire's  eye 
and  beckoned  her.  Claire  left  the  piano  stool. 

"Claire  Robson!"  began  Mrs.  Condor,  boldly. 
"Fancy — you  here!" 

Claire  looked  at  her  with  uncomfortable  direct 
ness.  ' '  All  my  friends  are  surprised, ' '  she  answered, 
simply. 

This  reply  left  Mrs.  Condor  without  any  con 
versational  lead.  But  she  was  not  inclined  to 

252 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

retreat  in  the  face  of  blocked  advance.  "I  heard 
somewhere,"  Lily  lied,  glibly,  "that  you  were  doing 
cabaret  work,  but  of  course  it  never  dawned  on  me 
to  find  you  in  the  Greek  quarter.  How  is  it — very 
dreadful?" 

Claire  waved  her  hand.  "You  can  see  for  your 
self,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  it  is  human  enough.  By  the 
way,  I  suppose  you're  very  sore  at  me.  But  really, 
you  know — " 

"Sore  at  you!  Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Condor,  I 
am  sore  at  nobody.  Why  should  I  be?" 

"Well,  I  thought  perhaps  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  what 
is  the  use  of  pretending?  You  know  what  I'm 
talking  about." 

"If  you  mean  that  silly  tempest  about  the  Cafe 
Chantant,  please  dismiss  it  from  your  mind.  I've 
done  so  long  ago.  You  were  put  in  an  awkward 
position  and  I  don't  blame  you.  You  had  to 
choose,  of  course,  between  me  and  your  friend, 
Mrs.  Flint.  I  can't  fancy  any  sane  person  doing 
differently." 

Claire  had  never  thought  she  could  put  so  much 
cool  insolence  into  a  speech.  Lily  Condor  stared, 
fidgeted,  tried  to  laugh.  "Mrs.  Flint!  Well,  my 
dear,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  she's  impos 
sible.  I  really  feel  sorry  for  Sawyer.  He  likes 
a  little  gaiety  now  and  then  .  .  .  just  .  .  .  Well, 
you  know  what  I  mean!" 

"Yes  ...  he  told  me  all  about  it  the  night  I 
went  over  to  take  dictation.  *  No  rough  stuff,  but 
a  good  feed,  and  two  kinds  of  wine,  and  a  cigarette 
with  the  small  black.'  That  was  the  way  he  put 

253 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

it,  as  I  remember.  It  all  sounded  very  gay  and 
exciting  then.  But  I've  seen  a  good  deal  since, 
and  now  it  all  strikes  me  as  quite  dull." 

Mrs.  Condor  was  measuring  Claire  with  a  puzzled 
air.  "Claire,  you're  getting  bitter,  I'm  afraid. 
I'm  sorry  to  see  that.  I'm  old  enough,  Heavens 
knows,  but  I  try  to  get  peevish.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  you  played  your  cards  all  wrong.  You  had 
Ned  Stillman  going  south.  Do  you  know  why  I 
called  you  over  to  my  table  to-night?" 

Claire  looked  at  her  purring  adversary  from  head 
to  foot.  "Yes,  you  wanted  to  make  sure  that  I 
wouldn't  spread  the  news  to  Mrs.  Flint  about 
seeing  you  here — with  her  husband.  You  needn't 
worry.  The  news  won't  get  to  Mrs.  Flint  through 
me.  I've  got  other  things  on  my  mind." 

Claire  moved  away.  Flint  was  coming  back. 
He  had  the  effrontery  to  bow  to  her,  but  she  stared 
at  him  coldly  and  resumed  her  seat  at  the  piano. 
Presently  she  was  conscious  that  Flint  had  called 
the  waiter.  And  a  little  later  she  saw  Flint  and 
Lily  Condor  go  out  the  side  door. 

Flint  came  back  to  the  Cafe  Ithaca  the  follow 
ing  night,  alone.  It  was  after  the  dinner  hour  and 
there  was  a  little  lull  between  gaieties.  The  enter 
tainers  sat  huddled  about  the  piano,  but  Claire 
was  sitting  in  a  far  corner,  at  one  of  the  obscure 
tables.  Since  the  St.  George's  Day  celebration  the 
other  performers  had  treated  her  with  cool  con 
tempt,  making  pointed  remarks  about  "up-stage" 
airs  and  the  people  who  indulged  in  them.  Claire 
felt  that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time,  now,  that 

254 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

she  would  be  forced  to  leave.  Lycurgus  had  taken 
to  drinking  more  and  more  heavily  and  he  had 
begun  to  intimate  that  perhaps  it  would  be  a  fairer 
proposition  if  Claire  got  in  between  numbers  and 
hustled  drinks  with  the  rest  of  them.  He  was  still 
appreciative  of  the  costume  she  had  worn  at  his 
feast,  but  she  was  finding  it  difficult  to  explain  why 
she  did  not  appear  in  it  every  night. 

Lycurgus  saw  Flint  come  in,  and,  scenting  a 
generous  patron,  scurried  up  to  him  obsequiously. 

" Thank  you — thank  you!    Where  will  you  sit?" 

Flint  swept  the  room  with  his  glance.  "Over 
there,"  he  said,  loudly,  pointing  to  where  Claire  was 
sitting. 

She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  but  Flint  bore 
down  upon  her  swiftly.  "Here!  Don't  be  in  such 
a  hurry!  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  shrugged  wearily  and  resumed  her  seat. 
Lycurgus  discreetly  retreated. 

Flint  threw  aside  his  overcoat  and  took  a  chair 
opposite  her. 

"What  '11  you  have?"  he  demanded,  beckoning 
the  waiter. 

"Nothing,"  she  answered. 

Flint  ordered  a  cognac. 

"Old  friend  Condor  tells  me  that  you  insulted 
her  last  night.  I'm  glad  of  it.  I'm  sick  of  her. 
I'm  sick  of  everything.  Cheer  up!  Have  one 
with  me,  won't  you?  ...  I  say,  but  you  are  a  nice 
little  tombstone  to  be  ornamenting  a  place  like 
this.  What's  the  matter,  don't  you  like  me?" 

Claire  continued  to  stare  dumbly  at  him.  He 
had  been  drinking,  she  could  see  that  plainly,  and 

255 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

she  felt  a  remnant  of  the  mixed  fascination  and  fear 
that  she  had  experienced  during  that  memorable 
hour  at  his  dinner-table. 

"No,  you  don't  like  me,"  he  mused  audibly,  with 
an  air  of  drunken  melancholy,  as  if  the  thought 
had  just  struck  him.  "That's  why  I'm  running 
around  with  the  old  girl  .  .  .  just  out  of  spite.  .  .  . 
Say,  but  this  is  a  hell  of  a  place  for  you  to  be  in! 
On  the  square  it  is  .  .  .  nothing  but  dirty,  drunken 
Greeks  and  painted  females!  Bah!  this  isn't  any 
place  for  you!  What  I  wanted  to  say  is  this — any 
time  you  want  your  job  back  you  can  have  it.  It's 
there  waiting  for  you.  And  there  ain't  any  strings 
on  it,  either.  ...  I  played  you  a  mean  trick  and 
I  acknowledge  it.  Now  I  ask  you,  on  the  level, 
ain't  that  fair  enough?  ...  I  ain't  the  man  to  go 
crawling  on  all-fours,  begging  people's  pardon.  But 
you've  been  pretty  game  and  I  take  my  hat  off  to 
you!  I  take  my  hat  off  to  anybody  that's  game, 
see?  Anybody  at  all  ...  anybody  that's  game, 
.  .  .  Well,  what  you  staring  at?  I  know  I'm  losing 
my  hair,  but  I  don't  have  to  have  you  tell  me  that. 
...  Is  it  a  go?  Your  job  back  and  everything 
nice  and  comfortable  again?" 

Suddenly  Claire  felt  sorry  for  him.  She  was  be 
ginning  to  feel  sorry  for  any  one  stripped  of  his 
illusions.  And  she  had  a  conviction  that  this  man 
before  her  had  treasured  illusions  that  were  no  less 
poignant  merely  because  they  were  vulgar.  He 
seemed  sincere  in  spite  of  his  befuddled  state. 
Somehow,  somewhere,  it  had  come  upon  him  that 
he  had  done  her  a  grave  injustice  and  he  was  offer 
ing  her  such  reparation  as  his  lights  allowed.  Hei 

256 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

job  back  and  everything  nice  and  comfortable  again! 
How  simple  and  naive  and  masculine!  Every 
thing — all  the  bitter,  soul-stirring  experiences  of 
the  past  months  to  be  swept  aside  by  the  simple 
formula  of  restoring  her  to  her  old  berth!  It  was 
absurd  enough  for  laughter,  but  tears  trembled 
very  near  the  surface  of  such  a  revelation.  Yes, 
it  took  a  man  to  have  the  courage  of  any  faith  so 
direct  and  artless! 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  clearly, 
"that  it  wouldn't  be  possible  .  .  .  to  have  the  slate 
wiped  clean  again.  And  besides  ...  I  have  to 
earn  my  living  now  at  night,  Mr.  Flint.  I  have 
my  mother  to  look  after  in  the  daytime,  you  know." 

She  spoke  so  gently  that  she  surprised  even  her 
self.  And  it  came  upon  her  that  she  had  no  reason 
to  feel  any  rancor  against  the  man  before  her.  It 
was  he  that  had  given  her  the  first  opportunity 
to  cross  swords  with  life.  And  it  struck  her  with 
added  force  that  she  would  not  recall  one  moment 
of  the  last  six  months  even  if  she  could. 

He  did  not  receive  her  reply  with  much  grace. 
His  fist  came  down  upon  the  table  as  he  said: 

"You  always  were  damn  full  of  excuses.  .  .  . 
You  worked  in  the  daytime  for  Ned  Stillman.  .  .  . 
But  you  can't  get  rid  of  me  as  quickly  as  you  once 
did.  This  is  a  public  place  and  I'll  come  here  and 
sit  every  night  and  order  up  drinks  until  you 
change  your  mind." 

Claire  rose  in  her  seat.  "Sit  down!"  he  com 
manded,  thickly.  "Sit  down,  or  by  God!  I'll  start 
something!" 

His  voice  had  risen  so  that  the  entertainers 
257 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

grouped  about  the  piano  heard  him.     Lycurgus 
came  forward. 

" Thank  you!  Thank  you!  .  .  .  What  is  the 
matter?" 

"This  dame  here,'*  Flint  cried,  sweeping  a  sneer 
ing  finger  in  Claire's  direction,  "she's  about  as  alive 
as  a  broiled  pork  chop.  I  come  in  here  for  a  good 
time  and  I  can't  even  get  her  to  drink  with  me. 
What  kind  of  a  dump  is  this,  anyway?" 

A  swooning  fear  came  over  Claire.  What  if 
Danilo  were  suddenly  to  come  in  the  side  door? 
She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  entertainers. 
They  were  smiling  broadly.  Lycurgus  rubbed  his 
hands  together  and  fawned. 

"Thank  you!  .  .  .  Thank  you!  What  is  it,  Miss 
Robson?  If  the  gentleman  wants  to  buy  a  drink, 
surely  ..." 

Claire  saw  Doris,  the  French  Jewess,  coming 
toward  them.  "Did  I  hear  something  about  some 
one  wanting  to  buy  a  drink?"  She  turned  a  wide 
smile  upon  Flint.  "Here,  let  me  sit  down!"  she 
demanded  of  Claire,  who  moved  away. 

Claire  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  dressing- 
room.  Lycurgus  followed  her. 

1 '  Miss  Robson,  thank  you !  Thank  you  I  You  see 
how  it  is?  You  spoil  my  trade!  Everybody  else 
.  .  .  they  dress  gay  .  .  .  plenty  of  color!  They 
order  drinks.  I  am  your  friend,  but  you  can 
see  ..."  , 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  hurriedly.  "I  see. 
It  is  all  my  fault.  I  shall  go  home  now,  and  not 
come  back." 

"Not  come — never ? ' '    Lycurgus  brought  his  hand 
258 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

forward  in  the  old  familiar  gesture.  "Oh,  Miss 
Robson,  why  do  you  make  me  so  sorrowful?  For 
just  a  drink.  .  .  .  You  would  not  even  have  to  taste 
it !  Ah,  I  do  not  understand  these  American  women !" 

She  escaped  swiftly  and  put  on  her  things.  As 
she  passed  out  through  the  cafe  again,  shrill  laughter 
followed  her  through  the  door.  She  hurried  along 
Third  Street.  At  the  crossing  of  Howard  Street 
she  was  aware  that  some  one  had  come  up  to  her. 
She  turned.  It  was  Sawyer  Flint.  His  face  was 
very  red  and  his  eyes  almost  swallowed  in  rolls  of 
puffy  flesh. 

"I'm  drunk/'  he  said,  thickly.  "I  know  that. 
You  don't  have  to  tell  me  I'm  drunk!  .  .  .  What 
was  the  matter?  Did  I  spill  the  beans?  I  spilled 
the  beans,  I  know.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me  I 
spilled  the  beans.  You  lost  your  job,  eh?  On 
my  account  you  lost  it?  Well,  do  you  know  I  don't 
give  a  damn  if  you  did?  That  ain't  any  place  for 
you.  .  .  .  That  other  dame  .  .  .  she  thought  I 
was  going  to  buy  her  a  drink.  Well,  she  had  another 
thought  coming.  I  don't  buy  drinks  for  any  of 
them.  I  buy  for  you  or  not  at  all.  .  .  .  For  you 
or  not  at  all!  I  think  I'll  go  out  and  see  old  lady 
Condor  now.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  her.  No  time 
like  the  present.  That's  my  motto — no  time  like 
the  present!  You  don't  have  to  tell  me  I  made 
you  lose  your  job.  I  know!  But  I  don't  give  a 
damn.  Do  you  understand  ?  Matter  of  fact,  that's 
the  only  decent  thing  I've  done  for  twenty  years. 
And  remember,  whenever  you  want  your  job 
back  .  .  .  You  know,  just  because  you're  game. 
I  take  my  hat  off  to  anybody  ..." 

259 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  gave  a  sudden  lurch  and  Claire  escaped. 

She  thought  at  first  of  going  directly  home,  but 
she  discovered  that  it  was  only  nine  o'clock  and  she 
dreaded  to  think  of  listening  to  the  pallid  chatter 
of  Miss  Proll,  the  little  seamstress.  Then  she  would 
be  forced  to  invent  an  excuse  for  her  early  home 
coming  and  she  had  grown  tired  of  inventing  excuses. 

She  decided  to  look  up  Nellie  Whitehead.  She 
found  her  at  home,  wielding  an  electric  iron  and  in 
a  state  of  comfortable  disorder  from  her  straggling 
hair  down  to  her  frayed  Japanese  straw  slippers. 

"Well,  Robson,  how  goes  it?"  Nellie  said,  testing 
the  heated  iron  with  a  moist  finger.  "Don't  tell 
me  you've  lost  your  job!" 

"That's  what  I  came  to  do,"  Claire  returned 
as  she  threw  her  hat  and  coat  to  one  side. 

Miss  Whitehead  with  fine  discrimination  changed 
the  sub j ect .  "I'm  going  to  get  married  next  week, ' ' 
she  announced. 

"To  ...  to  Billy  Holmes?" 

"The  same.  I  sat  down  and  figured  things  out 
the  other  day.  This  talk  about  the  independence 
of  females  may  be  all  to  the  good,  but  I  know  how 
independent  I  am  now  and  how  independent  I'll 
be  in  twenty  years  from  now.  Just  about  as  in 
dependent  as  a  barn-yard  fowl.  There's  an  old 
girl  down  where  I  work  now,  and  she's  getting  on 
the  ragged  edge  of  fifty,  and  what  do  you  suppose 
her  joy  in  life  consists  of?  Saving  her  dimes  up 
so  she  will  have  enough  money  to  dig  into  an  old 
people's  home  when  she's  sixty-five.  Ain't  that 
a  glowing  prospect?  Oh,  she'll  be  independent,  all 
right.  Anybody  is  who  is  a  guest  of  a  public 

260 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

institution.  Say,  1*11  bet  the  old  people's  home 
has  more  rules  than  a  hockey-game.  Of  course, 
I  suppose  a  man  can  lay  down  a  lot  of  rules  for  his 
frau's  conduct,  too,  but  the  man  who  marries  me 
will  have  the  fun  of  laying  'em  down  and  that's 
about  all.  ...  So  you've  lost  your  job?  Why 
don't  you  sign  up  a  marriage  contract?  You're 
not  waiting  to  fall  in  love,  are  you?  It's  too  bad 
old  friend  Stillman  has  incumbrances.  You  and 
he  would  make  a  go  of  it !  He's  a  pretty  good  kid, 
all  right.  He's  got  his  drawbacks,  like  the  rest  of 
'em,  but  there  must  be  something  fair  about  a  man 
who  stays  by  a  rotten  game.  .  .  .  Whatever  became 
of  that  Serbian  doctor,  Robson?  .  .  .  Strikes  me 
you've  kept  pretty  mum  about  him.  Billy  told 
me  the  other  day  he  saw  him  coming  out  of  your 
house.  On  the  square,  why  don't  you  flag  him?11 

Claire  tried  to  smile.  "Well,  at  least  wait  until 
he  asks  me!"  she  replied. 

And  they  began  to  discuss  Nellie  Whitehead's 
trousseau. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  the  Robson  flat  the  lights  were  still  burning 
when  Claire  got  home.  Especially  in  her 
mother's  room  there  was  an  unusual  brilliance  for 
so  late  an  hour.  Claire  was  frightened.  She 
scrambled  up  the  stairs.  Danilo  was  leaving  the 
sick-room.  "What?  .  .  ."  gasped  Claire.  "Has 
anything  .  .  ." 

He  smiled  mysteriously  and  shook  his  head. 
She  went  in. 

She  found  her  mother  propped  up  and  looking 
more  animated  than  at  any  time  since  her  illness. 
Her  eyes  were  glowing  and  two  faint  spots  burned 
on  either  cheek. 

"Claire!  .  .  .  Claire!"  she  whispered,  excitedly. 
"Danilo  .  .  ." 

"Yes!" 

"It  seems  .  .  .  He  wants  to  marry  you,  Claire. 
.  .  .  He  came  to  me  because  ...  it  appears  that 
is  the  custom  in  his  country." 

Claire  felt  the  room  whirling. 

"Well,  mother?" 

"He  is  a  kind  man,  Claire,"  she  heard  her  mother 
say. 

She  went  out  into  the  hall.  Danilo  was  standing 
calm  and  confident  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Your  mother  .  .  .  has  she  told  you?" 
262 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Yes." 

"You  are  not  ready — is  that  it?" 

"I  .  .  ."  She  gave  a  startled  look  and  fell  back 
a  trifle.  Then  more  quietly  she  finished:  "Let  us 
go  somewhere.  .  .  .  This  ...  I  cannot  talk  to 
you  here!" 

They  went  down  together  .  .  .  out  into  the  night. 
She  wondered  what  she  would  say  .  .  .  what  was 
there  to  talk  about?  .  .  .  This  was  the  moment 
she  had  been  waiting  for  all  her  life — the  moment 
that  every  woman  waited  for  .  .  .  and  still  it  ap 
peared  that  it  was  a  matter  for  calm  discussion. 
Perhaps  the  formality  of  Danilo's  procedure  had 
robbed  the  incident  of  its  surge  and  sweep.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  know.  .  .  .  All  she  knew  was  that  she 
was  trembling.  .  .  .  Afraid?  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps 
.  .  .  a  trifle.  Was  it  always  so? 

At  the  first  corner  they  came  upon  Danilo's  car. 
Danilo  halted. 

"No  ...  no  ...  let  us  walk!"  she  protested. 

He  yielded  to  her  humor  with  a  gracious  shrug. 
She  slipped  her  arm  into  his  and  as  quickly  with 
drew  it — he  was  trembling,  too!  .  .  . 

They  walked  down  Clay  Street  in  silence.  In 
stinctively  Claire  turned  toward  the  quickened 
pulse  of  the  town.  They  passed  through  the  gaudy 
shops  of  Chinatown  into  the  Latin  quarter.  .  .  . 
Crossing  Broadway,  they  came  upon  a  flight  of 
steps  that  lost  their  way  in  the  white  fog  which 
shrouded  Telegraph  Hill. 

"Shall  we  go  up?"  said  Danilo. 

Claire  turned  for  a  moment  and  looked  back  at 
the  light-blurred  city. 

263 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  she  gave  a  little  shiver. 

She  took  his  arm  and  they  began  to  climb;  the 
city  fell  beneath  them,  a  faintly  luminous  outline 
growing  more  and  more  remote.  Dimmed  by  the 
sad  and  mysterious  tears  of  evening,  the  squalid 
hillside  lost  its  harshness;  the  cold  street-lamps 
mellowed  to  gold  in  the  still,  thick  air. 

They  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill.  A  breeze 
from  the  west  showered  them  with  a  flurry  of 
moisture.  They  looked  up.  A  wind-tortured  tree 
was  bending  wearily  forward,  its  dripping  leaves 
trembling  before  the  night's  breath.  The  sound 
of  an  accordion  rose  above  the  muffled  moaning 
of  fog-whistles. 

'The  street  had  ended  suddenly  in  rout  and  was 
running  away  in  a  disorderly  succession  of  aimless 
paths. 

"Where  shall  we  go  now?"  asked  Danilo,  as  he 
halted. 

"Toward  the  music,"  Claire  replied,  vaguely. 

He  listened  a  moment.  "It  is  over  on  the  east 
side  of  the  hill  somewhere,"  he  announced. 

They  dipped  down.  The  way  became  more 
ragged  and  full  of  shifting  rocks.  The  air  was 
warmer,  screened  from  the  sea's  breath  by  the 
yellow  hilltop.  The  sound  of  the  music  grew 
nearer  and  nearer.  A  tawny  light  sprang  up  just 
ahead;  snatches  of  laughter  reached  them.  Then, 
quite  suddenly,  they  came  to  an  abrupt  and  jagged 
ledge. 

"See,  down  there!"  cried  Danilo. 

Claire  looked.  Just  below  them  in  a  bowl-like 
depression  that  had  once  been  the  clearing  for  an 

264 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

old-fashioned  garden  she  saw  black  figures  swaying 
rhythmically  about  a  bonfire.  Danilo,  taking  a 
newspaper  out  of  his  overcoat  pocket,  spread  it 
on  the  ground.  They  sat  down. 

The  curtain  rises  on  villagers  dancing  on  the  village 
green.  Claire  remembered  the  old  formula  with 
which  the  printed  synopsis  of  the  Christmas  pan 
tomime  inevitably  began.  It  had  been  to  her 
nothing  but  an  empty  phrase  like  the  "once  upon 
a  time"  of  a  folk-tale.  Claire  had  never  seen  a 
village;  she  had  seen  only  cities  and  country  towns, 
peopled  by  individuals  too  self-conscious  to  do 
anything  so  naive  and  simple  as  to  dance  open  and 
unashamed  upon  the  bare  earth. 

The  bonfire  blazed  up  suddenly  and  the  dim 
figures  became  more  tangible  and  alive.  Claire 
could  even  see  their  faces.  Remnants  of  a  feast 
were  scattered  about  —  blue-black  mussel-shells, 
soiled  tamale-husks,  brown  crusts  of  Italian  bread 
that  had  been  baked  in  huge  round  loaves.  The 
music  stopped.  The  girls  detached  themselves 
from  their  partners.  Jugs  of  wine  were  now  lifted 
up.  The  men  drank  with  heads  thrown  back, 
smacking  their  lips  in  greedy  satisfaction.  The 
women,  standing  apart,  began  to  smooth  out  their 
dresses  and  straighten  their  hats.  Somebody  came 
forward  to  the  women  carrying  a  demijohn  and  tin 
cups.  The  women  drank  coquettishly,  tossing  the 
last  mouthful  out  upon  the  camp-fire.  Then  the 
music  began  again. 

Claire  leaned  forward,  her  lips  parted  with  a 
spiritual  hunger  she  could  not  define.  She  felt 
Danilo's  hand  slowly  closing  over  hers;  she  made 
18  265 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

no  attempt  to  withdraw  it.  As  she  sat  there  watch 
ing  these  women  surrendering  to  their  transient 
joys  She  felt  a  strange  envy,  mixed  with  profound 
pity.  These  women  danced  to-night;  they  would 
dance  to-morrow  night  .  .  .  for  a  week,  or  a  month, 
or  a  year,  as  the  case  might  be,  but  finally  the  reck 
oning  would  come.  But  at  least  they  danced! 
At  least  they  would  have  their  memories! 

One  brown  wisp  of  a  girl  stood  out  from  all  the 
rest.  She  was  not  so  deep-bosomed  and  broad  of 
hips  as  the  other  women,  and  she  danced  airily, 
darting  here  and  there  like  a  blue-winged  swallow. 
Her  partner,  too,  was  taller  and  thinner-flanked 
than  the  other  men.  Her  head  was  tilted  back 
and  her  man  bent  forward  as  if  to  imprison  her 
very  breath  in  the  snare  which  his  smile  had  set. 
Whenever  the  music  stopped  they  drank  from  the 
same  tin  cup,  and  when  the  dance  began  again  they 
whirled  off  like  two  leaves  in  the  clutch  of  the 
autumn  breeze. 

Claire  bent  forward  eagerly;  a  movement  of  her 
foot  sent  a  detached  stone  tumbling  over  the  cliff 
into  the  midst  of  the  dancers.  They  all  halted, 
looked  up  in  surprise.  Then  the  young  woman, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  Claire  and  Danilo,  waved 
a  welcome. 

"Come!"  she  called,  gaily.  "Come  and  have  a 
dance!" 

The  music,  which  had  ceased  for  a  brief  instant, 
started  up. 

"Shall  .  .  .  shall  we  go  down?"  asked  Claire. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Why  not?" 

They  circled  down  the  hillside  hand  in  hand. 
266 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

When  they  came  up  to  the  bonfire  wine  was  being 
poured  and  thick  slices  of  bread  passed  about.  The 
little  brown  girl  came  forward,  showing  her  white 
teeth. 

"Here,  Tony!  This  way  with  the  wine!"  she 
cried. 

Her  partner  answered  her  call.  He  had  two  tin 
cups  and  a  demijohn  in  his  hand.  He  filled  both 
cups  to  the  brim,  passing  one  to  Claire  and  one  to 
the  girl  at  his  side.  Both  women  took  a  sip ;  the  girl 
handed  the  cup  back  to  her  companion. 

"You,  too!"  she  said  to  Claire.  "You  and  your 
man!  You  are  like  us  ...  lovers!  You  must 
drink  so  ...  from  the  same  cup." 

Claire  looked  at  Danilo.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  the  cup  from  her.  .  .  .  They  brought 
bread  next,  not  sliced,  but  in  a  huge  brown  loaf.  The 
youth  broke  through  the  crisp  crust  and  gave  them 
each  a  piece.  It  seemed  to  Claire  as  if  she  were 
partaking  of  some  strange  and  beautiful  sacrament. 
She  looked  away  from  the  firelight — the  fog  had 
grown  whiter  and  more  dense,  and  the  city  below 
them  had  ceased  to  exist.  It  was  as  if  care  had 
died  and  this  pallid  mist  were  a  winding-sheet  that 
would  forever  screen  its  ghastly  face. 

The  music  started  up  once  more.  The  little 
brown  girl  and  her  lover  whirled  away. 

"Come,"  said  Danilo,  as  he  drew  Claire  gently 
toward  him. 

She  tossed  aside  her  hat,  throwing  it  with  joyful 
abandon  upon  the  top  of  a  stunted  rose-hedge 
which  bent  to  receive  it.  They  began  to  dance, 
simply,  beautifully,  naturally,  their  feet  planted 

267 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

firmly  upon  the  yellow  clay,  their  quick,  ardent 
breaths  further  whitening  the  evening  air. 

' '  Claire !  Claire !' '  Danilo  bent  over,  in  the  fash 
ion  of  the  lean-flanked  youth,  toward  her  parted 
lips.  " Claire,  do  you  hear  me?  ...  I  love 
you!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling  back  at  him,  "I 
hear  you!" 

1  'From  the  same  cup,  Claire  .  .  .  joy  or  sorrow! 
We  shall  drink  always  from  the  same  cup." 

"Yes,  joy  or  sorrow!  Joy  or  sorrow!"  she  re 
peated  after  him. 

''When  we  mounted  the  stairs  to-night,  Claire,  we 
did  not  know  that  we  were  climbing  to  happiness. " 

"Let  us  stay  up  here  always.  .  .  .  Let  us  never 
go  down." 

'  'Always,  Claire,  always.   We  shall  never  return . ' ' 

The  music  stopped.  They,  too,  stopped,  out  of 
breath  and  bewildered.  The  musician  was  folding 
up  his  accordion. 

"Ah,"  cried  the  little  brown  girl,  running  up  to 
them,  "it  is  over  too  soon!  But  we  cannot  dance 
all  night.  There  is  work  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  assented  Claire,  slowly.    "You  are  right." 

The  wine-jugs  were  lifted  and  the  wine-cups  filled 
for  the  last  time.  Danilo  took  a  perfunctory  sip 
and  passed  his  cup  to  Claire;  she  put  it  to  her  lips 
— this  time  the  wine  had  a  bitter  taste.  She  thrust 
the  drink  from  her  at  arm's-length  and  poured  a  red 
flood  upon  the  tawny,  sun-baked  ground. 

Already  the  company  was  departing.  Claire 
and  Danilo  stood  apart  and  watched  them  go. 
They  dipped  down  the  hillside,  fading  into  the  mists 

268 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

like  a  company  of  devout  and  penitent  pilgrims. 
The  fire  had  sunk  to  a  heap  of  red  embers. 

"We  must  be  going,  too,"  said  Claire. 

They  made  their  way  back  to  the  flight  of  steps. 
The  west  wind  had  risen  sharply,  and  the  fog 
parted  in  the  breeze.  The  city  was  emerging  from 
its  gloom  like  a  be  jeweled  woman  dropping  a  scarf 
from  her  gleaming  shoulders. 

"Must  .  .  .  must  we  really  go  back?"  Claire 
asked,  suddenly,  as  she  drew  away  from  the  first 
downward  step. 

He  took  her  hand.  "Are  you  afraid  .  .  .  with 
me?"  he  said,  gently. 

She  pressed  his  hand.  "Can  it  be  over  so 
soon?" 

"Over?  It  has  just  begun,  Claire.  Have  you 
forgotten?  .  .  .  From  the  same  cup!" 

"Joy  or  sorrow,"  she  repeated. 

He  led  her  back  a  short  distance.  They  with 
drew  into  the  shelter  of  a  twisted  acacia  that  seemed 
determined  to  escape  from  the  imprisonment  of 
its  squalid  garden.  She  leaned  against  the  fence. 

"Ah,  Claire!"  she  heard  him  say,  and  she  felt 
the  shadow  of  his  upraised  arms  fall  upon  her, 
"can  you  not  picture  our  life  together?  .  .  .  All 
the  brave  things  to  do  and  accomplish?  .  .  .  This 
is  as  I  have  always  dreamed  it — to  share  even  my 
workday  with  my  wife.  To  share  my  poverty 
with  her.  To  share  my  aspirations.  Come,  what 
is  your  answer?" 

She  raised  her  brimming  eyes  to  his.  "Yes," 
she  answered. 

He  put  his  fingers  to  her  temples  and  drew  her 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

face  toward  him.  "My  wife!"  he  said,  simply. 
And  he  let  his  lips  fall  upon  her  hair. 

What  had  she  come  to  talk  about?  Problems? 
.  .  .  her  mother?  .  .  .  her  duties?  .  .  .  How  ab 
surd,  when  nothing  else  mattered  but  just  this  .  .  . 
nothing  else  in  the  whole  wide  world ! 

They  walked  slowly  to  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

"If  every  one  could  be  as  happy!"  escaped  her. 

"Ah  yes,"  he  murmured,  "but  there  is  an  end 
even  to  sorrow.  .  .  .  To-day  my  friend  Stillman's 
sorrow  ended  .  .  his  wife  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  decided  that  Claire  and  Danilo  were  to  be 
married  some  time  in  August.  Danilo  was  for 
rushing  off  for  a  license  at  once,  but  Claire  pleaded 
the  usual  feminine  lack  of  suitable  apparel.  Upon 
the  question  of  finances  in  the  mean  time,  Danilo 
was  extraordinarily  frank: 

"I  might  as  well  give  up  my  lodgings  in  that 
wretched  Third  Street  hotel  and  come  here.  Can 
not  you  shoo  Miss  Proll  into  another  corner  and  let 
me  have  the  hall  bedroom?" 

Claire  was  on  the  point  of  reflecting,  but  Danilo 
finished,  simply: 

"You  must  live  for  the  next  three  months,  you 
must  remember." 

And  so  the  thing  was  decided. 

Mrs.  Robson  was  a  bit  disturbed  at  this  arrange 
ment.  The  excitement  of  Claire's  prospects  had 
revived  in  her  all  her  old  sense  of  social  expedi 
ency.  .  .  .  She  wasn't  quite  sure  that  people  did 
such  things.  She  could  not  remember  one  instance 
where  anybody  of  her  acquaintance  had  permitted 
their  daughter's  fiance  to  share  the  same  roof, 
and  she  was  emphatic  in  her  disapproval  of  allow 
ing  Danilo  to  foot  the  bills.  But  Claire  reminded 
her  that  Danilo  came  of  different  stock  and  had 

271 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

other  standards.  At  this,  Mrs.  Robson  surrendered, 
but  Claire  could  see  that  her  mother's  old  distrust 
for  things  ''foreign"  was  ready  to  flare  up  at  the 
first  provocation. 

Miss  Proll,  established  in  a  corner  of  the  living- 
room,  pleaded  for  the  honor  of  preparing  the  trous 
seau.  Claire  consented,  as  she  said,  with  a  rueful 
laugh: 

"You  won't  have  much  to  work  on." 

But  a  surprise  was  in  store  for  Claire.  In  Mrs. 
Robson 's  room  there  had  stood  for  years  a  huge 
black  trunk  concealed  under  a  discarded  portiere. 
Claire  had  guessed  that  it  was  full  of  relics  and 
memories  of  the  Carrol  family's  former  grandeur, 
but  she  had  never  felt  the  slightest  interest  in  ex 
ploring  these  melancholy  fragments  of  other  days. 
But  it  proved  otherwise.  There  were  memories, 
plenty  of  them,  but  they  had  to  do  with  the  touch 
ing  struggle  of  a  mother  who  had  provided  against 
the  day  of  what  she  felt  to  be  her  daughter's  greatest 
need.  The  trunk  was  full  of  every  conceivable 
material  that  a  bride  would  find  necessary  for  a 
brave  showing — yards  of  silk,  bolts  of  linen,  quan 
tities  of  lace. 

"I  didn't  want  my  daughter  to  be  a  make-over 
bride,"  Mrs.  Robson  explained  to  Miss  Proll,  who 
stood  by  Claire  as  she  threw  up  the  trunk's  heavy 
lid.  "I  wanted  her  to  have  everything  fresh  and 
new  .  .  .  except  perhaps  my  wedding-dress." 

Claire,  blinded  by  tears,  drew  out  the  heavy 
white-satin  gown,  slightly  yellowed  by  the  years. 
She  held  it  up. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Mrs.  Robson  continued 
272 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

to  drawl,  thickly.  "I'm  afraid  it  won't  do.  They 
dress  differently  now  .  .  .  fluffy,  light  things.  I 
guess  .  .  ." 

But  Claire  had  silenced  her  with  a  kiss.  Miss 
Proll's  cheeks  were  glowing  with  vicarious  nuptial 
excitement  as  she  lifted  the  corded-satin  skirt  in 
her  capable  fingers  and  said: 

"Oh,  you  won't  know  this  when  I  get  through 
with  it!" 

There  was  the  veil  Mrs.  Robson  had  worn,  too, 
and  the  artificial  orange-blossoms,  hoarded  care 
fully  in  tissue-paper,  even  the  thick,  white  kid 
gloves  of  a  bygone  day. 

"But  mother  ...  all  these  other  things  .  .  . 
how  ever  did  you  manage?" 

Mrs.  Robson  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She 
was  in  no  mood  for  explanations ;  she  was  standing 
before  the  altar  of  all  her  sacrifices,  and  it  was  glow 
ing  with  the  light  of  fulfilment. 

From  the  moment  that  the  old  black  trunk  was 
opened  a  suppressed  excitement  ran  quivering 
through  the  house.  Miss  Proll,  scorning  fatigue, 
plied  her  needle  after  her  regular  workday  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  bride-elect.  Her  joys  in  the 
preparations  softened  Danilo,  who  had  always  ex 
pressed  a  contempt  for  her  solitary  state. 

Then  there  was  shopping  to  do  of  a  trivial  sort. 
It  seemed  that  scarcely  a  day  went  by  without 
a  request  from  Miss  Proll  for  some  trifling  but 
highly  important  reinforcement  to  the  regular 
treasure-chest.  Claire,  slipping  on  her  things  to 
run  down  to  the  shops,  felt  the  delicious  thrill  of  a 
truant  spendthrift. 

273 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"For  myself,"  she  said  one  day  to  Danilo,  "I 
would  much  rather  be  married  in  just  a  street  dress. 
But  mother  would  be — " 

"A  street  dress!"  Danilo  echoed,  incredulously. 
"No,  your  mother  is  right!  I  am  marrying  a 
bride,  remember!" 

And  she  discovered  that  a  wedding  to  Danilo 
meant  everything  the  term  implied — orange 
wreaths,  and  veils,  and  huge  cakes  .  .  .  and  a  feast. 
There  was  nothing  colorless  nor  sophisticated  about 
such  a  ceremony  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  Nellie  Whitehead  married  Billy 
Holmes.  Claire  and  Danilo  were  among  those 
bidden  to  see  the  knot  tied.  It  happened  at  the 
noon  hour  in  the  vestry  of  St.  Luke's  Church,  and 
a  score  or  more  of  relations  and  friends  gathered 
about  and  sniffled  during  the  performance.  Claire, 
always  moved  by  the  sonorous  solemnity  of  the 
Anglican  Prayer-book,  was  really  touched  by  it 
all,  in  spite  of  her  Presbyterian  training,  and  even 
Nellie  Whitehead  emerged  from  the  ordeal  tremu 
lously.  There  followed  the  usual  kissing  of  the 
bride  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  ignoring  of  the  groom, 
a  bit  of  half-hearted  rice-throwing,  and  the  thing 
was  over.  No  feast,  no  rejoicing,  no  laughter. 

Danilo  was  puzzled  and  disapproving. 

"Why  did  they  not  say  mass  for  the  dead  and 
be  done  with  it?"  he  snorted. 

Two  days  later  he  came  in  for  dinner  and  an 
nounced  : 

"Now  you  shall  see  a  real  wedding!" 

It  appeared  that  two  prominent  members  of  the 
Greek  colony  were  to  be  married  on  the  following 

274 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Sunday  night,  and  there  was  to  be  a  feast  at  the 
Cafe  Ithaca.  Claire  had  not  been  near  her  old 
haunts  since  the  night  when  she  had  dismissed  her 
self.  There  had  been  really  no  excuse.  Danilo 
had  brought  her  the  money  due  from  Lycurgus  for 
the  half -week  she  had  served  him.  At  first  she  had 
an  impulse  to  ask  Danilo  to  excuse  her.  She  did 
not  feel  sure  that  she  cared  to  see  the  Ithaca  again, 
and  she  was  equally  undecided  about  the  wedding. 
But  in  the  end  she  made  up  her  mind  to  go.  At 
the  last  moment  Danilo  was  called  out  suddenly 
to  a  sick-bed.  This  meant  that  they  were  late 
for  the  ceremony  at  the  church.  But  they  arrived 
in  time  to  see  the  bride  and  groom  making  their 
triumphal  exit  from  the  altar.  The  air  was  musky 
and  warm  with  incense  and  burning  candles,  and 
for  all  its  cheapness  the  church  assumed  a  blue- 
veiled  atmosphere  of  mystery  for  the  occasion. 
Outside,  the  steps  were  thronged  with  the  curious, 
and,  instead  of  hastening  coyly  to  the  waiting 
taxicab,  the  bride  graciously  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  doorway  so  that  all  the  beauty-hungry  mob 
below  her  could  catch  a  satisfying  glimpse  of  her 
young  loveliness.  There  was  a  simple  and  gener 
ous  pride  about  this  little  by-play  that  made  it 
very  charming  to  Claire. 

Danilo  and  Claire  swung  on  a  passing  car  and 
arrived  at  the  Ithaca  almost  with  the  bridal  party. 
A  pushing,  eager  mob  of  children  blocked  the  side 
entrance  and  even  spilled  over  into  the  banquet- 
hall  upon  the  heels  of  the  bride.  The  room  was 
arranged  as  it  had  been  for  the  St.  George's  Day 
celebration  and  the  public  was  excluded.  Lycur- 

275 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

gus,  catching  sight  of  Claire,  came  forward  with  his 
old  sweeping  manner,  murmuring  his  clipped  con 
gratulations.  Doris,  spying  her  from  a  far  corner, 
rushed  up  with  an  impulsive  kiss.  It  seemed  as 
if  everybody  was  ready  to  sink  all  animosities  and 
feuds  before  the  glamour  of  Claire's  new  estate. 

The  feast  began.  Claire  looked  about ;  many  of 
the  seats  were  not  taken.  She  remarked  the  fact 
to  Danilo. 

"Oh,  they  will  fill  up  presently,"  he  replied. 

And  it  turned  out  that  the  wedding-supper  was 
not  a  matter  of  cool  calculation — so  many  places 
for  so  many  guests — but  that  the  feast  was  spread 
beyond  the  known  partakers. 

"Suppose  some  of  the  guests  should  bring  their 
friends?"  Claire  inquired  of  Danilo.  "One  must 
look  to  that.  It  would  not  do  to  turn  any  away." 

A  feast  then  was  a  feast,  a  thing  to  be  eaten,  it 
did  not  matter  so  much  by  whom;  indeed,  strangers 
were  better  than  no  guests  at  all.  There  was  some 
thing  biblical  about  it,  and  Claire  thought  at  once 
of  the  parable  in  the  New  Testament  which  began : 

"A  certain  rich  man  made  a  great  supper  .  .  ." 
And  ended :  "Go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges 
and  compel  them  to  come  in,  that  my  house  may  be 
filled." 

"This,"  thought  Claire,  "is  the  real  hospital 
ity  ...  the  real  democracy." 

And  it  struck  her  forcibly  that  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  sensed  in  a  flash  the  meaning  of  equal 
ity  and  fraternity.  In  a  Greek  restaurant,  at  a 
celebration  of  one  of  the  sacraments  of  autocracy 
and  authority,  she  had  come  upon  the  underlying 

276 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

principles  that  she  had  been  taught  to  murmur 
mechanically  since  childhood. 

Looking  through  the  narrow  aperture  of  a  par 
ticular  occasion,  she  had  an  illuminating  glimpse 
of  larger  issues,  unessential  differences,  and  essential 
things  in  common  that  separated  and  bound  the 
world  together.  Danilo  ceased  to  be  from  a  people 
apart  and  peculiar.  His  people  would  be  her 
people,  not  merely  because  she  was  to  become  his 
wife,  but  because  they  would  make  claims  upon 
her  sympathy  and  her  love.  The  table  of  life  was 
spread  for  certain  feasts  that  could  exclude  nobody. 

She  had  been  expecting  some  outlandish  notes 
to  be  struck  in  the  celebration,  but  it  all  passed  off 
with  a  certain  joyous  solemnity.  The  supper  was 
delicious,  the  wine  abundant,  the  bride  girlish  and 
pleasantly  conscious  of  her  importance  and  the 
beauty  of  her  snow-white  veil.  The  groom  had  a 
place,  too,  it  seemed,  in  the  general  spectacle — an 
unheard-of  thing  in  Claire's  experience.  And  in 
addition  to  the  bride's  cake  there  was  a  special 
cake  brought  in  for  the  bachelors'  table.  It  was 
curious  to  discover  that  the  unattached  males  were 
quite  content  to  sit  at  a  board  of  their  own  without 
the  leaven  of  feminine  companionship. 

Later  in  the  evening  the  entertainers  sang,  and, 
of  course,  it  was  inevitable  that  there  would  be 
dancing.  Danilo  and  Claire  left  at  midnight.  The 
feast  was  by  no  means  ended,  but  Danilo  had  an 
early  start  scheduled  for  the  next  day,  and  Claire 
was  not  unwilling  to  escape  before  the  spirit  of  the 
occasion  staled. 

On  the  way  home  Danilo  said : 
277 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"There,  that  is  what  I  call  getting  married! 
Your  people  go  about  it  as  if  it  were  something  to 
be  ashamed  of.  You  have  another  word  for  it  ... 
well-bred,  that  is  how  you  say  it.  But  we  should 
all  be  natural  once  in  a  while.  ...  I  suppose 
you  will  not  care  to  have  a  feast?" 

Claire  glanced  at  him  sharply  before  replying. 
He  looked  so  wistful,  so  like  a  boy  trembling  before 
the  possibility  of  finding  his  fears  confirmed,  that 
her  lips  broke  into  a  smile  as  she  said : 

"I  think  it  would  be  lovely.  Let  us  do  just 
whatever  you  would  like." 

He  rewarded  her  with  a  flaming  kiss  upon  her 
hand.  He  had  never  asked  Claire  for  her  lips; 
there  was  a  certain  austerity  about  his  attitude 
that  at  times  filled  her  with  strange  awe. 

Every  day  with  unfailing  regularity  Claire  made 
a  resolution. 

"I  shall  tell  Danilo  that  I  know  Stillman." 

But  it  was  easier  to  rehearse  the  scene  than  to 
carry  it  out.  It  all  seemed  so  simple  in  prospect. 
There  was  something  awkward  about  forcing  the 
subject,  and  when  Danilo  opened  the  way  with 
some  casual  reference  to  his  friend,  Claire  always 
had  a  feeling  that  the  moment  seemed  almost  too 
opportune. 

One  night  she  decided  to  make  the  plunge  and 
hazard  the  truth.  Danilo  had  run  m  for  a  moment 
between  professional  visits.  He  had  a  trick  of 
snatching  at  these  fragments  of  companionship, 
and  Claire  was  getting  used  to  his  unexpected 
appearance  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 

278 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

''I've  .  .  .  I've  something  I  want  to  tell  you," 
she  blurted  out  suddenly,  as  she  stood  before 
him. 

Her  melodramatic  hesitancy  must  have  made 
him  apprehensive,  for  he  returned,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh: 

"You're  not  tired  of  your  bargain  already,  are 
you?" 

"No  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  Well,  I  hope  you  won't 
think  it  strange.  .  .  .  The  truth  is  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  in  confusion.  He  gave  her  a  look 
of  puzzled  sympathy.  It  was  plain  that  she  was 
disturbed  and  unhappy. 

He  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her  shoulder. 
' '  Well,  if  you're  not  tired,  what  does  the  rest  matter  ? 
Unless,  of  course,  there  is  some  one  else.  ...  In 
that  case  ..."  He  had  stopped  breathing  and 
his  lips  were  parted  anxiously. 

'  *  How  absurd  you  are !' '  She  found  herself  laugh 
ing  at  him. 

After  that  the  thing  seemed  impossible,  and  finally 
the  moment  that  she  had  been  expecting  and  dread 
ing  came.  Danilo  said  to  her  one  morning,  as  he 
was  leaving: 

"What  night  next  week  will  be  convenient  for 
you  to  go  out  to  dinner?  I  want  you  to  meet 
Mr.  Stillman." 

"To  meet  Mr.  Stillman?  .  .  .  Must  I?" 

He  flushed.  "Well,  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  you  would  object.  I  have  spoken  about  it 
to  him." 

"Oh,  of  course!  Naturally  for  the  moment  I 
felt  surprised.  How  would  Tuesday  night  do?" 

279 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Tuesday  night  did  perfectly.  Danilo  decided 
on  dinner  at  the  St.  Francis.  Claire  was  admon 
ished  to  dress  her  prettiest. 

They  had  set  the  hour  at  seven-thirty,  but  at 
the  last  moment  a  telephone  message  came  to  the 
hotel  that  Stillman  was  detained.  Danilo  decided 
upon  going  into  the  dining-room  and  waiting  there 
rather  than  in  the  lobby. 

Stillman  came  in  at  eight  o'clock.  Claire  saw 
him  standing  in  the  entrance  to  the  dining-room, 
greeting  a  woman  friend.  He  looked  very  well, 
she  thought. 

Danilo  was  for  rushing  up  and  escorting  Stillman 
in  triumph  to  Claire's  side,  but  she  restrained  him. 
Presently  Stillman  detached  himself  from  his  femi 
nine  acquaintance  and  he  stepped  into  the  room. 
He  caught  Danilo's  beckoning  ringer;  his  face  lit 
with  a  rare  smile.  Claire  knew  that  he  had  not 
yet  glimpsed  her. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  almost  upon  them 
that  Claire  noticed  him  start  almost  impercep 
tibly.  Then  she  heard  Danilo's  voice  ringing  out 
warmly: 

"Ah,  so  there  you  are!  .  .  .  Claire,  this  is  the 
Mr.  Stillman  that  you  have  heard  me  speak  of  so 
often.  .  .  .  Does  he  come  up  to  your  hopes?" 

Claire  inclined  her  head  gently. 

"You  forget  ...  I  have  seen  Mr.  Stillman 
before,"  she  chided. 

"Oh  yes  ...  at  the  Ithaca.  I  had  forgotten," 
Danilo  replied  as  he  waved  his  guest  into  a  seat. 

As  for  Stillman,  he  said  nothing,  but  Danilo 
went  on  with  vivacity: 

280 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"You  see,  my  brother,  it  is  as  I  told  you — I  shall 
not  need  a  pistol." 

"A  pistol!"  echoed  Claire,  in  a  nervous  attempt 
to  break  the  strain  of  Stillman's  silence.  "And 
what  use  could  you  have  for  a  pistol,  pray?" 

"That  was  for  the  other  man  in  the  case,"  Still- 
man  said,  suddenly,  looking  up. 

A  quick  flush  overspread  Danilo's  face. 

Claire  did  not  know  whether  Stillman's  tone  was 
ironical  or  bitter,  or  just  thoughtless.  But  as  she 
turned  to  help  herself  to  the  olives  which  the  waiter 
held  out  to  her  she  had  a  feeling  that  the  last  door 
to  the  necessary  understanding  between  herself 
and  Danilo  concerning  Stillman  had  been  sud 
denly  closed. 

19 


CHAPTER  X 

MEANWHILE,  among  the  countless  war  chari 
ties  that  loomed  upon  the  local  horizon  the 
name  of  Serbia  began  to  be  heard.  There  had  been 
fe"tes  and  kermesses  for  starving  Belgians,  and  lect 
ures  on  Poland,  and  concerts  for  English  widows 
and  orphans,  and  grand-opera  benefits  for  the 
Italians,  but  so  far  Serbia  seemed  to  have  made 
either  a  very  faint  outcry  or  to  have  been  pushed 
into  the  background  by  more  spectacular  petition. 
But  an  erstwhile  famous  dancer  adopting  the  fa 
mous  Red  Cross  cap  and  gown  in  the  interest  of 
Danilo's  birthplace,  there  began  to  be  a  decided 
interest  in  that  little  country.  A  permanent  or 
ganization  for  Serbian  relief  was  formed,  and  Danilo 
was  made  president. 

There  followed  accounts  in  the  daily  press  about 
Danilo;  his  picture  was  published;  his  name  even 
wandered  into  the  social  columns.  Then,  one  day, 
when  news  was  slack  and  space  abundant,  an  enter 
prising  female  reporter  discovered  that  Danilo's 
father  had  been  a  descendant  of  a  famous  Serbian 
king,  or  archbishop,  or  some  such  imposing  creature, 
and  Danilo's  reputation,  social  and  professional, 
was  made.  It  seemed  that  civilization,  although 
perfectly  ready  to  dispense  with  the  empty  for- 

282 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

mulas  of  state,  was  still  hovering  with  a  certain 
fascination  about  the  flickerings  from  the  untrimmed 
lamps  of  the  nobility.  It  appeared  that  any  de 
scendant  of  royalty  must  of  necessity  have  a  ro 
mance  hidden  away  in  the  folds  of  his  figurative 
ermine,  and  so  it  was  not  long  before  Danilo's 
secret  was  made  public,  in  a  good  half -column  of 
social  chatterings,  together  with  a  photograph  of 
the  bride-elect.  Suddenly  San  Francisco  seemed 
to  have  discovered,  or  rather  the  press  did  for  it, 
that  Miss  Claire  Robson  was  "talented,  accom 
plished,  and  a  pronounced  favorite  of  the  younger 
set."  Claire,  reading  the  glowing  account,  remem 
bered  that  brides  always  were  "pronounced  favor 
ites  with  the  younger  set,"  whenever  through 
accident  or  design  their  names  became  mixed  with 
the  socially  elect.  And  not  only  was  she  herself 
all  these  things,  but  her  mother  before  her  "had 
been  a  member  of  the  exclusive  Southern  set  of  the 
'seventies,"  and  her  two  aunts,  Mrs.  Thomas  Wynne 
and  Mrs.  Edward  Ffmch-Brown,  were  still  "most 
prominent  in  social  activities."  Altogether  the 
alliance  was  the  most  distinguished  and  romantic 
affair  imaginable.  Only  one  figure  in  the  drama 
came  out  indifferently,  and  that  was  Claire's  father. 
Claire  was  merely  the  daughter  of  the  late  Mr. 
William  Robson,  and  the  recital  of  this  melancholy 
fact  was  accomplished  with  the  haste  of  a  regretful 
discretion. 

Danilo  was  as  pleased  as  a  child. 

"See,"  he  would  cry  to  Claire,  "we  are  in  the 
paper  again !  That  is  a  fine  thing  for  Serbia !  Now 
San  Francisco  will  know  that  such  a  place  exists." 

283 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Every  day  for  a  week  there  was  fresh  gossip 
concerning  Claire  in  the  newspapers.  Quite  in  the 
American  fashion,  not  even  the  glamour  of  Danilo's 
ancestors  could  secure  for  him  the  amount  of  space 
given  to  the  woman  he  was  to  marry.  The  dis 
covery  was  made  that  Miss  Robson  was  "a  talented 
musician  ...  a  pianist  of  no  mean  ability  ...  a 
familiar  figure  to  concert -goers  ...  an  enthusiastic 
Red  Cross  worker.  ..."  Indeed,  it  transpired  that 
she  offered  her  talents  gratuitously  upon  the  altar  of 
charity.  In  spite  of  the  money  spent  upon  a  dis 
tinguished  musical  education,  she  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  turn  her  abilities  to  the  account  of 
the  distressed.  It  went  without  saying  that  she 
was  in  perfect  sympathy  with  her  prospective 
husband's  plans  for  the  relief  of  his  native  land, 
so  much  so  that  she  was  scorning  all  pre-nuptial 
entertainment  so  that  her  time  might  be  free  for 
the  broader  demands  of  philanthropy.  It  was  all 
very  smart  and  entertaining,  and  the  real  facts  of 
the  case  were  concealed  with  a  dexterous  skill. 
It  would,  of  course,  have  been  the  height  of  impro 
priety  to  set  in  the  column  of  a  young  bride's  virtues 
the  facts  that  she  had  supported  an  invalid  mother 
for  six  strenuous  months,  that  she  had  served  her 
employers  well,  that  she  was  modest  and  virtuous, 
and  withal  courageous  in  the  face  of  adversity! 
No,  the  truth  would  have  made  dull  reading  for 
the  rank  and  file  who'  snatch  romance  and  fiction 
between  gulps  of  morning  coffee. 

But  the  public's  interest  in  kings  and  archbishops, 
and  Serbian  relief,  and  Claire  Robson  went  the 
way  of  all  satisfied  curiosity,  and  just  at  the  moment 

284 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

when  it  seemed  that  Danilo  had  ceased  to  be  of 
any  concern  this  same  enterprising  reporter  made 
another  discovery.  Danilo's  father  may  have 
sprung  from  a  line  of  kings,  but  his  mother  was 
a  product  of  the  backbone  of  every  nation — the 
common  people.  Now  there  were  more  columns  of 
interesting  speculation.  Democracy  came  into  its 
own.  Here  was  an  alliance  between  exclusive  privi 
lege  and  fundamental  rights,  abstractions  made 
flesh  by  the  glib  vagaries  of  the  daily  press.  And 
the  result,  of  course,  was  Danilo,  a  sort  of  demigod 
who  had  combined  all  the  virtues  of  both  classes. 
Chief  among  the  items  of  interest,  the  most  incred 
ible  to  a  democratic  community,  seemed  to  be  the 
fact  that  his  same  Danilo  was  not  only  unashamed 
of  his  peasant  stock,  but  proud  of  it.  But  then,  he 
had  been  basking  in  the  warmth  of  the  free  and 
untrammeled  institutions  of  America  for  at  least  five 
years,  and  he  had  learned,  no  doubt,  to  revise  his 
standards.  Indeed,  it  was  due  to  the  influence 
of  American  life,  to  say  nothing  of  his  charming 
American  bride-to-be,  that  he  was  bending  all  his 
endeavors  toward  a  rehabilitated  Serbia.  And  it 
was  hinted  that  there  was  even  a  possibility  that 
this  adopted  son  of  the  Golden  West  might  one  day 
sit  in  the  presidential  chair  of  an  enlightened  and 
enfranchised  Serbian  state.  With  this  burst  of 
tentative  prophecy,  the  hectic  imaginings  of  the 
daily  press  concerning  George  Danilo,  Claire  Rob- 
son,  and  their  ancestors  went  out  like  a  spent 
candle. 

But  the  dust  raised  by  all  this  journalistic  flight 
lingered  long  after  the  bustle  and  noise  of  the  per- 

285 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

formance  had  subsided.  Danilo  sensed  it  in  an 
ever-widening  circle  of  wealthy  patients,  and  Claire 
in  a  rush  of  interested  visitors.  Almost  her  first 
caller  proved  to  be  her  pastor,  Doctor  Stoddard. 
He  came  in  one  Saturday  afternoon.  Miss  Proll 
had  returned  home  early,  and  the  living-room  was 
a  confusion  of  dressmaking,  so  Claire  ushered  the 
reverend  gentleman  into  the  dining-room.  Almost 
the  first  thing  that  engaged  his  attention  was  the 
holy  image  and  swinging  lamp  before  it  that  Danilo 
had  set  up  on  his  name-day.  He  walked  over  and 
examined  it  rather  cautiously.  Then  he  sat  down 
with  the  air  of  one  determined  to  meet  the  devil 
without  delay  or  compromise. 

"The  gentleman  you  are  to  marry,"  he  said, 
looking  squarely  at  the  icon  as  he  spoke,  "I  pre 
sume  he  is  ...  I  take  it  that  he  is  of  a  different 
faith." 

"Doctor  Danilo  is  a  Greek  Catholic,"  Claire 
answered. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  in  which  it  appeared 
that  Doctor  Stoddard  was  marshaling  all  his  wits 
for  a  serious  encounter.  Finally  he  said: 

"I  hope  he  is  not  insisting  on  your  partaking  of 
his  communion." 

"We  have  never  even  discussed  the  thing. 
Really,  I  hardly  know  what  his  views  are.  As  a 
matter-  of  fact,  it  makes  no  difference." 

"Makes  no  difference!  .  .  .  Why,  my  dear  Miss 
Robson,  it  would  seem  to  me  that  it  ought  to  make 
a  very  great  difference.  You  don't  mean^to  say 
that  you  would  sacrifice  every  conviction  upon  the 
altar  of  love?" 

286 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire,  who  had  been  standing,  took  a  seat. 
"My  dear  Doctor  Stoddard,  have  you  really  ever 
met  a  woman  seriously  in  love?" 

The  gentleman  coughed  and  began  to  polish  his 
finger-nails  upon  the  glossy  surface  of  his  coat-sleeve. 

"I  have  been  in  the  ministry  for  over  thirty 
years."  He  stopped  a  moment,  measuring  Claire 
for  a  supreme  thrust  as  he  finished  with  a  certain 
pompous  satisfaction.  "And  you  forget,  Miss 
Robson,  I  am  myself  a  married  man!" 

Here  was  simple,  conceited,  masculine  faith  again ! 
Claire  could  not  restrain  a  smile  as  she  changed  the 
subject.  But  it  came  to  her  as  she  did  so  that 
there  was  something  at  once  pathetic  and  terrible 
about  so  bland  an  assurance.  She  thought  of 
Stillman  and  quite  unconsciously  she  found  herself 
mentally  repeating: 

"I  must  tell  Danilo  in  the  morning." 

Doctor  Stoddard  continued  to  make  other  polite 
inquiries,  but  in  the  end  the  original  question  came 
to  the  fore  again. 

"I  hope,"  he  hazarded,  upon  leaving,  "that  you 
will  ponder  seriously  the  spiritual  side  of  your 
marriage.  One  should  think  twice  before  deserting 
the  faith  of  one's  fathers.  I  cannot  fancy  that 
Doctor  Danilo  will  expect  you  to  make  the  supreme 
sacrifice  of  being  married  out  of  your  own  fold." 

After  he  had  gone  she  felt  uncomfortable.  She 
had  lost  all  sense  of  the  authority  with  which  Doctor 
Stoddard  felt  himself  invested,  but  in  an  intangible 
way  he  did  remain  the  symbol  of  those  things  un 
seen  which  made  faith  in  life  possible.  And  some 
how  his  presence  revived  the  old  hopes  as  well  as 

287 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  exquisite  spiritual  fears  of  childhood.  She  had 
not  been  trained  to  refresh  a  soul  wearied  by  sophis 
tication  by  the  simple  act  of  lighting  a  taper  before 
a  holy  image,  and  she  knew  that  this  never  could 
be  her  portion.  But  Doctor  Stoddard's  presence 
itself  gave  her  a  very  real  idea  of  what  Danilo  had 
felt  when  he  had  set  up  his  little  name-day  altar 
in  the  Robson  dwelling.  One  could  deny  the  pre 
cise  terms  of  one's  inbred  faith,  but  it  would  still 
remain  the  most  tangible  clue  to  a  larger  hope — 
the  slender  thread  which  guided  one  through  the 
maze. 

Only  one  other  person  raised  the  question  of 
what  form  of  ceremony  Claire  had  decided  upon 
for  her  wedding,  and  curiously  enough  that  person 
was  Nellie  Whitehead  Holmes. 

"I  say,  Robson,"  she  flung  out  one  day,  "I  hope 
you  ain't  going  to  stand  for  any  three-ringed  circus 
stuff  when  you  get  hitched.  Just  you  insist  on  a 
straight  old-fashioned  get-away. . .  in  plain  English." 

Claire  made  no  reply  and,  Nellie,  searching  her 
friend's  face  sharply,  said,  with  no  attempt  to  con 
ceal  her  panic: 

"You  ain't  thinking  of  changing  your  religion, 
are  you?" 

Claire  smiled.  "Well,  why  not?  I'm  changing 
my  name.  And  after  all  ..." 

"Claire  Robson,  don't  be  a  fool!  .  .  .  Why,  I 
wouldn't  change  my  religion  for  the.  best  man  in 
the  world!" 

"No?    And  just  what  is  your  religion,  Nell?" 

' '  Why,  I  'm  an  Episcopalian !  You  ought  to  know 
that!  You  went  to  my  wedding.  You  didn't 

288 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

think  Holmes  had  any  say  about  that,  did  you? 
Well,  I  guess  not!  No,  sirree,  I  wouldn't  change 
my  religion  for  anything!" 

Danilo  was  very  busy  now  and  Claire  really  saw 
little  of  him.  He  took  an  early  breakfast,  almost 
on  the  run,  and  it  was  seldom  that  he  came  in  at 
the  dinner  hour.  But  somehow  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Robson  flat  was  tremulous  with  his  presence. 

The  month  of  June  passed,  unusually  clear  and 
unusually  warm  for  early  summer  in  San  Francisco. 
Claire  never  remembered  a  time  when  she  had  been 
busier.  There  was  the  housework  to  do  and  sewing 
to  be  accomplished  and  her  mother  to  attend  to.  Not 
that  Mrs.  Robson  was  making  any  great  demands, 
but  Claire  found  herself  surrendering  every  spare 
moment  to  the  invalid.  At  such  times  Claire  had 
a  shuddering  sense  of  keeping  a  watch  for  the  com 
ing  of  that  thief  which  was  to  rob  her  of  the  last 
link  binding  her  to  her  old  life.  It  was  plain  that 
Mrs.  Robson  was  failing  fast.  Complications  were 
developing,  the  end  could  not  be  far  off. 

At  night  she  took  long  walks  while  Miss  Proll 
sewed  feverishly.  The  old  gray  city  was  like  an 
old  intimate  friend  and  she  was  saying  good-by 
to  it  as  passionately  as  if  it  had  been  a  warm  and 
living  personality.  She  would  stand  for  long 
stretches  upon  the  heights,  watching  the  twilight 
lay  its  cloak  gently  upon  the  town's  curving  limbs. 
And  as  night  came  on  apace,  the  hills  would  twinkle 
with  the  shameless  gauds  of  evening.  What  a 
wanton,  fascinating  city  it  was!  And  how  she 
loved  it!  ...  All  her  life  she  had  taken  it  for 

289 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

granted,  as  one  takes  for  granted  the  familiar  things 
that  grow  commonplace  by  constant  association. 
And  yet  for  all  this  new-found  appreciation  of  her 
native  city,  she  longed  to  leave  it,  she  wanted  to 
hold  the  memory  of  its  beauty  as  an  ever-living 
thing,  and  she  was  afraid  to  trust  to  the  narrowing 
vision  of  bitter  years.  Sometimes  in  these  glow 
ing  moments  she  thought  of  Stillman,  trying  to 
dismiss  the  picture  of  his  face,  sneering  and  cold 
before  the  realization  that  she  was  soon  to  be  lost 
to  him  forever.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  that 
night  when  Danilo  had  invited  him  to  dinner  at 
the  St.  Francis.  He  had  recovered  his  old  genial 
manner  after  the  first  lapse,  but  she  knew  that  the 
flimsy  robes  of  pretense  were  at  best  an  indifferent 
covering  for  the  wounds  which  were  staining  his 
pale  contentment.  She  did  not  like  to  remem 
ber  that  evening.  It  smacked  of  subterfuge  and 
un  worthiness. 

She  should  have  told  Danilo — she  must  tell  him 
to-morrow — that  was  the  thought  that  flashed  over 
her  every  time  she  came  face  to  face  with  the 
question.  But  somehow  to-morrow  never  came. 

"I  must  tell  him  to-morrow!  ...  I  must  tell 
him  to-morrow!"  It  became  a  stereotype  formula 
which  she  repeated  as  one  repeats  a  monotonous 
prayer  in  the  hope  of  dulling  a  keen  sensation  of 
guilt.  She  was  in  the  grip  of  one  of  those  simple 
situations  that  grow  complicated  through  con 
cealment.  That  was  the  trouble,  it  was  almost 
too  simple,  and  she  could  find  no  convincing  argu 
ment  to  explain  why  she  had  been  silent  so  long. 

During  the  days  when  the  papers  had  been  full 
290 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

of  her  engagement  to  Danilo  she  found  her  heart 
beating  anxiously  every  time  she  opened  the  news 
paper  to  the  society  column.  What  if  a  hint  of  her 
friendship  for  Stillman  were  to  be  blazoned  forth 
there?  It  was  just  as  likely  that  some  such  airy 
fiction  as  this  would  grace  the  feast  of  gossip: 

"Miss  Robson  is  an  unusually  graceful  dancer 
and  she  and  Mr.  Ned  Stillman  were  the  sensation 
of  the  St.  Francis  supper  dancers  all  last  season." 

If  it  were  so  curiously  awkward  to  approach 
Danilo  with  the  truth  at  first  hand,  what  could  she 
say  if,  hearing  the  facts  of  the  case  from  other 
sources,  Danilo  were  to  suddenly  demand  an  ex 
planation?  She  could  not  say: 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  mat 
ter.  .  ."  Or,  "I  really  didn't  think  you  would 
be  interested." 

One  night  Danilo  came  home,  his  lips  parted  in 
flushed  pleasure,  his  black  eyes  glowing. 

' '  Have  you  heard  what  has  happened  ?  Somebody 
has  donated  a  million  dollars  to  the  Serbian  cause." 

"Somebody?"  echoed  Claire,  but  her  heart  stood 
still  as  she  said  it. 

"Well,  it  is  not  for  general  publication,  but  of 
course  you  can  guess  who  has  done  this  thing.  .  .  . 
There  is  only  one  man  in  San  Francisco  who  would 
do  it." 

Claire  said  nothing.  But  the  old  determination 
seized  her. 

"Now,  I  must  tell  him  in  the  morning!"  she 
thought. 

But  when  next  morning  came  Danilo  had  risen 
early  and  departed. 

291 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  MILLION  dollars  for  the  Serbian  cause!  The 
newspapers  came  out  with  the  news  in  bold 
head-lines,  and  interest  in  Danilo  and  his  fiancee 
grew  keen  again.  It  seemed  incredible  that  a  sane 
person  could  have  given  a  million  dollars  to  any 
cause  and  withhold  his  name !  It  was  a  method  of 
procedure  that  was  neither  modern  nor  business 
like  nor  sound,  and  after  the  fury  and  fun  of 
speculation  had  died  the  daily  press  grew  a  bit 
peevish  at  their  balked  opportunity  to  exploit  the 
donor.  And  not  only  had  a  million  dollars  been 
left  like  a  love-child  at  the  door-step  of  charity,  but 
there  had  been  no  provision  made  for  the  manner 
of  its  disbursement.  Dr.  George  Danilo  was  to 
have  absolute  and  discretionary  power  in  spend 
ing  this  huge  sum,  and  nothing  further  appeared 
to  be  suggested  or  demanded. 

Only  one  person  ventured  to  hint  to  Claire 
Robson  that  they  were  in  possession  of  the  secret, 
and  this  one  person  was  Nellie  Holmes. 

"You  can't  fool  me,  Robson!"  Nellie  said,  search 
ing  Claire  with  her  shrewd,  kindly  eyes.  "I  know 
who  slipped  that  million  dollars  into  the  poor-box. 
It  was  friend  Stillman.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me ! 
And  it  ain't  because  he  cares  a  whoop  about  Serbia 
or  Dr.  George  Danilo,  Esquire,  either." 

292 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  paled  and  then  flushed.  "Really,  Nell, 
you  mustn't!  That  isn't  fair  to  .  .  ." 

"Fair  nothing!  Danilo  must  have  two  eyes 
and  a  nose,  and  if  .  .  ." 

Claire  cut  her  short  with  a  quick  gesture.  "You 
don't  understand.  Danilo  doesn't  know.  I  mean, 
I  never  have  told  him  that  .  .  .  that  I  even  knew 
Ned  Stillman." 

A  low  whistle  escaped  Nellie  Holmes.  "My 
God!  Robson,  but  you  were  a  fool!"  . 

"  I  know,  but  I  mean  to  soon.    As  soon  as  I  .  .  ." 

"Look  here,  Robson,  it's  too  late  now!  You'll 
just  have  to  take  a  chance.  There  are  some  things 
that  cold  storage  improves,  but  a  secret  like  that 
ain't  one  of  them.  Now,  with  Billy  it  would  be 
different.  He'd  take  my  word  because  he  knows 
that  there  are  some  things  I  wouldn't  be  mean 
enough  to  lie  about.  But  your  friend  .  .  .  well, 
he's  in  love  up  to  his  eyes.  And  a  man  like  that 
is  dangerous.  It  wouldn't  take  much  to  bring  him 
up  to  boiling-point.  And  you'd  better  not  turn  on 
the  blue-flame  at  this  stage  of  the  game." 

But  Claire  was  determined  that  she  would  get 
free  of  this  figurative  blood-clot  which  was  paralyz 
ing  her  will,  and  that  night  when  Danilo  came  home 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  out.  It  was  one 
of  the  nights  when  Danilo  had  denied  all  other 
demands,  so  that  he  might  have  dinner  with  Claire, 
and  after  the  coffee  she  settled  back  in  her  seat 
and  said: 

"You  have  really  never  told  me  who  gave  that 
million  dollars." 

"But  you  know?" 

293 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Well,  after  a  fashion.  It  ...  I  presume  it 
was  Stillman." 

This  was  not  as  she  had  planned  the  scene  and 
she  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  making  slight  progress. 
Yes,  you  are  right !  I  have  never  had  anything 
in  my  life  so  touching!  Isn't  it  wonderful,  Claire? 
This  is  a  tribute  to  me,  you  understand.  After 
all,  he  can  have  no  real  interest  in  Serbia." 

She  drew  back  in  her  seat.  His  face  was  eager 
and  full  of  simple  faith  and  enthusiasm. 

"  It  is  very  curious, ' '  Danilo  went  on.  *  'He  could 
have  given  it  to  some  other  cause.  He  is  very 
fond  of  Belgium,  for  instance.  But  he  picked 
Serbia.  Are  you  not  proud  of  me,  Claire?" 

He  held  his  hand  out  to  her  across  the  table. 
She  gave  him  her  fingers  and  he  pressed  them 
warmly. 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  me  that  you  are  proud  of 
me?"  he  insisted,  as  she  stared  at  him  with  silent, 
almost  frightened  eyes.  "Do  you  not  think  that 
a  man  who  can  inspire  the  gift  of  a  million  dollars 
for  his  native  land  has  reason  to  be  conceited?" 

"Every  reason  .  .  .  every  reason,"  she  forced 
herself  to  murmur. 

"And,  as  you  say  in  America,  it  is  a  very  good 
ad.  Why,  checks  are  simply  pouring  in!  And 
there  is  to  be  a  concert  given  next  week.  I  was 
talking  to  some  of  the  ladies  about  it  to-day.  One 
of  them  knew  you  well.  She  said  you  played 
accompaniments  for  her  last  winter.  Mrs.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  .  .  ." 

"Mrs.  Condor?"  Claire  asked,  faintly. 

"Yes,  that  is  her  name!    She  is  going  to  open 
294 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  program.  And  she  was  saying  how  nice  it 
would  be  if  you  would  consent  to  play  for  her. 
You  know  I  never  would  have  thought  of  that. 
I  told  her  yes!  Of  course!  You  would  be  de 
lighted." 

Claire  stared.  Lily  Condor 's  audacity  was  ar 
resting  enough  in  all  conscience,  but  Danilo's  calm 
disposition  of  the  matter  rankled.  Had  it  not 
occurred  to  him  that  she  might  have  something  to 
say  about  such  an  arrangement? 

"Well,  really,  you  know,"  she  began  to  stammer, 
in  spite  of  a  wish  to  give  her  words  an  air  of  finality. 
"I  don't  think  that  I  ..." 

''Nonsense!"  he  returned,  genially.  "It  has  all 
been  decided  upon.  In  fact,  we  have  had  the 
announcements  put  in  the  hands  of  the  printer 
already.  Mrs.  Condor  said  you  had  played  the 
same  program  before,  so  what  was  the  use  in  de 
laying?  Remember,"  he  finished,  with  a  laugh, 
"you  are  to  be  my  wife,  and  in  my  country  the 
first  thing  a  wife  learns  is  obedience." 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  explain  her  ob 
jections —  they  involved  too  many  issues  —  and 
she  could  not  discuss  Danilo's  viewpoint  without 
seeming  to  be  turning  an  inconsequential  matter 
to  very  serious  account.  But  she  did  gather  courage 
to  say : 

Next  time  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  me  before 
you  make  plans  of  that  kind." 

Danilo  frowned. 

Lily  Condor  again!  Claire  pondered  this  un 
expected  circumstance  all  next  day.  She  had  been 

295 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

hearing  scraps  of  gossip  from  time  to  time  con 
cerning  the  lady  through  Nellie  Holmes,  enough 
to  indicate  that  her  social  position  was  border 
ing  on  total  eclipse.  Capturing  Danilo's  patronage 
was  a  daring  and  characteristic  stroke,  but  Claire 
felt  that  Lily  knew  that  any  such  move  was  essen 
tially  futile.  Was  Mrs.  Condor  indulging  a  mere 
whim  or  was  a  subtle  revenge  back  of  her  latest 
move? 

Claire  had  quickly  abandoned  all  hope  of  deny 
ing  her  services  in  the  face  of  Danilo's  obvious  dis 
pleasure.  But  the  prospect  of  having  to  face  the 
situation  filled  her  with  dread.  There  was  no  tell 
ing  where  the  issue  would  lead.  What  if  Mrs. 
Condor  were  to  acquaint  Danilo  with  the  secret 
which  Claire  had  been  withholding  ?  Nellie  Holmes 
was  right,  as  usual — there  were  some  things  that 
cold  storage  did  not  improve.  It  was  too  late  now 
to  indulge  in  the  selfish  luxury  of  a  confession. 

She  felt  sorry,  too,  in  a  way,  for  Lily  Condor. 
There  was  a  pathetic  note  in  the  lady's  very  bold 
ness.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  Mrs.  Condor 
had  lived  a  hard,  reckless  life,  but  who  could  say 
what  spiritual  pressure  had  driven  her  down  the 
barren  highway  of  her  pitiless  pleasures?  For 
Claire  had  learned  another  thing,  one  must  have 
wealth  to  be  a  spendthrift,  and  she  was  discovering 
that  the  greatest  spiritual  bankrupts  were  those 
who  had  the  courage  to  dare  magnificently  and  lose. 
And  so  she  sat  down  and  wrote  Lily  Condor  a  little 
note,  which  read: 

I  understand  that  I  am  to  play  for  you  next  week.  When 
shall  I  see  you  and  talk  over  the  program? 

296 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

And  on  the  same  night  she  wrote  to  Ned  Still- 
man: 

I  must  see  you  and  have  a  talk — perhaps  for  the  last  time. 

Three  days  later  she  met  Stillman  at  mid- 
afternoon  in  an  obscure  Italian  restaurant  near  the 
foot  of  Columbus  Avenue.  She  had  been  some 
what  humiliated  by  the  prospect  of  this  covert 
meeting,  but  when  the  final  moment  came  she 
felt  suddenly  calm.  As  in  the  old  days,  his  presence 
engendered  confidence.  He  threw  out  a  golden 
circle  of  light  like  some  mellow  lamp  that  disdained 
a  searching  brilliance,  but  was  content  to  soften 
rather  than  to  betray  the  secrets  of  its  surroundings. 

He  ordered  coffee  and  a  pale  amber  liqueur  and 
for  a  few  moments  they  talked  about  things  that 
were  of  the  least  possible  moment.  He  seemed  a 
little  older,  a  little  less  suave  and  assured ;  it  was 
as  if  the  hands  of  his  spirit  were  trembling  a  trifle 
as  they  lifted  life's  cup. 

"I  have  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said,  finally, 
when  the  stock  of  subterfuge  was  exhausted. 
"There  were  so  many  things  that  remained  unsaid." 

"Perhaps  it  was  as  well,"  she  faltered. 

He  touched  her  hand.  "Ah  no!  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  a  corroding  silence.  ...  I  have  learned 
in  the  past  months!" 

He,  too!  She  felt  her  pulses  quickening,  but  she 
could  not  speak,  she  could  only  clench  her  fist 
under  the  impulsive  pressure  of  his  fingers. 

"What  are  your  plans  for  the  future?"  she  asked, 
suddenly. 
20  297 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  shrugged.  "I  had  hoped  to  get  away  into 
the  thick  of  it.  .  .  .  But  it  seems  that  my  duty  is  to 
stick  by  the  home  guns.  Or,  at  least,  so  they  tell 
me.  That's  gratifying,  of  course  ...  to  know 
that  one  accomplishes  the  appointed  task.  The 
armies  must  be  fed,  and  California  is  an  opulent 
storehouse.  There's  lots  to  do  here.  .  .  .  Still  .  .  . 
Well,  you  understand,  don't  you?" 

"Yes  ...  I  think  I  do.  I've  heard  you've  done 
magnificently.  And  I've  felt  proud  of  you  because, 
after  all,  in  a  way,  we  started  on  that  road  together." 

He  leaned  forward.  "It  was  you  who  first  in 
spired  it.  ...  And  I've  been  tremendously  grate 
ful.  I've  thrown  down  a  rotten  card  or  two  in 
the  course  of  it  all  ...  but  it  isn't  always  easy 
to  play  a  straight,  clean  game.  But  now  that 
everything  is  over  and  you  ...  you  are  going 
to  try  your  luck  with  the  very  best  fellow  in  the 
world.  It  was  hard  for  me  to  figure  it  that  way 
at  first,  but  when  I  saw  it  right  .  .  .  well,  I 
wanted  to  help  in  some  way  ...  to  do  something 
really  big  for  you  both." 

"That  million  dollars  to  the  cause,"  she  assented. 
That  was  magnificent.  Danilo  is  touched  .  .  . 
you  must  know  that." 

He  swept  the  table  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
"Ah  yes,  I  suppose  he  is  ...  but  it  isn't  the  per 
sonal  tribute  I  should  have  liked  ...  for  you.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me  for  speaking  this  way!  But  to-day 
for  the  last  time  .  .  .  surely  you  will  let  me  say 
a  few  things  that  are  near  my  heart.  That  last 
night  we  were  together — alone — well,  that  was  a 
dangerous  moment  for  me.  There  are  times  when 

298 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  man  lifts  up  the  precious  cup  that  holds  his  ideal 
and  brings  it  crashing  down  into  shattered  frag 
ments  on  the  floor.  I  raised  my  glass  high  that 
night  for  its  destruction,  and  you  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  Ah, 
well,  I'm  getting  a  bit  too  poetical  .  .  .  but  you 
know!  .  .  .  The  point  is  I  want  you  to  absolve  me 
...  to  wash  me  clean  ...  to  forget  that  night." 

She  stirred  slightly.  "I  have  the  same  favor 
to  ask,"  she  murmured.  "When  you  met  me  at 
the  Ithaca  .  .  .  my  words  to  you  were  all  very 
unworthy.  .  .  .  And  I  have  put  you  since  in  an 
awkward  position.  It's  hard  for  me  to  explain  just 
why  I  haven't  told  Danilo.  ...  I  suppose  some 
day  I  shall  .  .  .  but  now,  well,  I've  decided  to 
let  it  rest  as  it  is  for  the  present.  It's  all  absurd 
and  pointless  and  feminine.  .  .  .  But  Danilo  is 
different !  One  can't  tell  him  certain  things,  easily. ' ' 

He  drew  his  liqueur-glass  toward  him  and  looked 
down  into  its  amber  depths  with  the  air  of  a  man 
catching  his  breath. 

"Different!  .  .  ."  he  returned,  musingly.  "Yes, 
you  are  right.  He  is  a  flame  that  warms  everything 
that  comes  in  contact  with  him.  But  I  fancy  he 
can  wither,  too." 

"Yes,  he  can.  .  .  .  That's  the  reason  why  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  squarely. 

"Claire  ...  do  you  mind  if  I  call  you  'Claire'? 
...  I  am  afraid  we  are  playing  with  fire." 

It  was  past  six  o'clock  when  Claire  left  the 
restaurant.  The  warm  spell  of  June  was  over, 
and  a  high  ocean  fog  was  drifting  in  on  the  breath 
of  the  west  wind.  People  hurried  by  muffled  in 

299 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

overcoats  and  furs,  their  straw  hats  incongruously 
accenting  the  almost  wintry  gloom.  But  Claire 
was  in  no  mood  to  take  account  of  wind  and  weather. 

This  last  intimate  meeting  with  Stillman  was 
full  of  irony.  For  the  first  time  they  had  met  and. 
talked  of  what  was  close  to  their  hearts  with  per 
fect  frankness,  and  it  was  to  be  the  last  time!  He 
had  even  spoken  about  his  dead  wife,  in  a  perfectly 
natural,  simple  way,  as  if  Claire  had  known  her  all 
her  life. 

They  had  said  farewell  while  the  waiter  was  busy 
ing  himself  clearing  away  their  empty  glasses.  It 
seemed  better  so.  But  as  Stillman  took  her  hand 
he  said: 

"Try  not  to  forget  me,  Claire — completely." 

"I  shall  never  forget,"  she  answered. 

She  left  him  standing  there  while  the  waiter  bowed 
over  the  generous  tip  which  lay  upon  the  stained 
table-cloth.  ...  At  the  door  she  turned  fcr  a  last 
look.  He  was  smiling  at  her,  but  it  was  a  twisted 
smile.  .  .  .  She  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  .  .  . 

When  she  arrived  home  Danilo  was  standing 
in  the  hall,  slipping  on  his  overcoat.  She  had  a 
fear  that  he  would  make  some  comment  about  her 
late  home-coming,  but  he  said  nothing — he  merely 
nodded  to  her  as  he  reached  for  his  hat.  She  stood 
puzzled  at  his  silence ;  there  was  something  ominous 
about  it,  and  her  brain  started  guiltily  as  she  thought, 
"Could  it  be  possible  that  he  has  seen  us  together 
this  afternoon?" 

She  began  to  take  off  her  wraps.  "Are  .  .  .  are 
you  going  out?"  she  asked. 

He  stared  at  her.     "Yes." 
300 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

''Some  one  is  ill  ...  I  mean  have  you  a  sudden 
call?" 

"Yes." 

She  did  not  know  why  she  persisted  in  question 
ing  him. 

"You  will  be  out  late,  then?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  may  not  come  home  at  all." 

She  moved  nearer.  The  hall  light  struck  him 
squarely.  His  look  frightened  her.  There  was 
not  a  bit  of  color  in  his  face,  and  his  lips  were  thinned 
as  upon  that  first  night  when  he  had  risen  in  his 
seat  at  the  Cafe  Ithaca  and  betrayed  his  love 
for  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  demanded,  with  des 
perate  boldness.  "You  .  .  .  Something  must  have 
gone  wrong?" 

He  started  back  as  if  she  had  struck  him  a  blow. 
"It  is  nothing.  I  am  not  feeling  well.  That  Serbian 
relief  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  .  .  .  Money,  money 
pouring  in  ...  and  they  do  not  care  about  the 
cause,  either!  It  is  just  the  fashion,  that  is  all!  .  .  . 
Bah!  Sometimes  I  hate  the  whole  pretense!  .  .  . 
I  would  like  to  find  one  honest  person!" 

She  shrank  back.  He  walked  past  her  quickly 
and  he  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  Half-way 
down  he  halted  and  called  up  to  her: 

"Your  friend,  Mrs.  Condor,  was  in  to  see  me  to 
day.  .  .  .  She  will  be  here  to-morrow  to  talk  over 
the  program." 

Claire  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  But  the 
door  slammed  decisively. 

"  Your  friend,  Mrs.  Condor,"  Claire  mused. 
"What  a  nasty  tone!" 

301 


CHAPTER  XII 

DANILO  did  not  come  home  that  night,  but 
Claire  was  not  disturbed.  Morning  brought 
the  usual  sanity.  She  was  convinced  now  that 
Danilo's  manner  of  the  night  before  was  more  a 
matter  of  her  own  mood  and  interpretation  than 
anything  else.  But  she  was  determined  on  one 
thing:  she  would  ask  Mrs.  Condor  quite  frankly 
to  say  nothing  to  Danilo  about  Stillman.  Claire 
was  still  undecided  about  the  whole  question.  She 
had  seen  that  Stillman  was  against  the  fine-spun 
theories  back  of  her  silence,  but  she  had  not  yet 
acquired  the  masculine  directness  of  conduct  that 
made  it  easy  for  her  to  be  either  ruthless  or  perfectly 
just. 

Mrs.  Condor  came  in  shortly  after  two  o'clock. 
She  was  dressed  with  extraordinary  lack  of  spirit 
for  her,  in  a  black  street  dress  that  just  escaped 
being  dowdy,  and  her  face  was  incased  in  a  thick, 
ugly  veil. 

"Well,  my  dear  Claire,"  she  said,  as  she  threw 
back  her  veil  with  something  of  her  old  spirit, 
''but  this  is  good  of  you!" 

The  warmth  of  tone  repaid  Claire's  effort  to  be 
generous. 

"There  is  no  use  in  us  wasting  time  talking  about 
the  program,"  she  went  on.  "You  play  every- 

302 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

thing  I'm  going  to  sing.  I  don't  know  anything 
new.  I'm  getting  too  old  to  learn  other  tricks. 
You  know,  of  course,  what  I've  come  for?  To 
see  all  your  pretty  clothes.  I'm  still  soft  about 
such  things." 

Claire  took  her  into  the  front  room. 

''You  see,"  she  said,  "there  isn't  anything  very 
grand." 

"Oh,  but  Claire!  What  does  it  matter?  You 
are  in  love.  ...  If  I  were  a  woman  in  love  I 
wouldn't  change  places  with  the  Empress  of  India. 
I  was  jealous  of  you,  Claire,  once  .  .  .  jealous 
because  I  thought  you  were  in  love  .  .  .  because  I 
thought  you  could  be.  ...  Ah !  You  didn't  think 
that  I  cared  for  Ned  Stillman?  ...  Oh,  I  liked 
his  attentions,  perhaps — every  woman  likes  atten 
tion.  And  I  was  envious  of  your  youth,  and  nasty 
because  my  nerves  were  frayed.  .  .  .  But  deep 
down  I  was  jealous  of  your  ability  to  fall  in  love 
with  somebody.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  Claire,  the  bitter 
est  moment  of  any  woman's  life  is  when  she  wakes 
up  and  finds  that  she  loves  no  one.  At  least  that 
was  the  bitterest  moment  of  my  life.  .  .  .  I've 
tried  to  bring  that  feeling  back  again!  But  trying 
doesn't  do  any  good.  It  either  comes  or  it  stays 
away,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  ...  Oh,  I've 
been  loved,  Claire,  but  that  isn't  the  same." 

Claire,  who  had  been  folding  her  wedding-dress, 
stopped  and  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  look  at  me  that  way!" 
Lily  Condor  resumed.  "I've  played  a  rotten  game, 
but  I've  never  acknowledged  it  to  myself,  much 
less  to  any  one  else.  .  .  .  Don't  misunderstand  me 

303 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

— I'm  not  crawling  around  on  my  hands  and  knees 
sniffing  like  a  repentant  sinner.  ...  I  hate  repent 
ant  sinners!  But  I've  been  cheap  and  small  and 
nasty.  Petty — that's  the  word!  You  may  not 
believe  it,  but  pettiness  isn't  a  part  of  my  original 
make-up.  I've  acquired  it  ...  like  a  false  com 
plexion.  ...  I  started  in  life  with  three  things 
— a  clear  skin,  quantities  of  very  red  hair,  and  a 
decent  feeling  for  others.  Well,  I  lost  them  all — 
so  I  powdered  my  cheeks  and  touched  up  my  hair 
and  filled  in  the  chinks  in  my  disposition  with  a 
hard  glaze.  Oh,  I'm  not  excusing  myself!  Some 
people  are  willing  to  sit  back  and  let  time  and  mis 
fortune  do  their  worst,  but  I  wasn't  one  of  them. 
I  kept  on  fighting.  ...  I  didn't  win,  but  it  hard 
ened  me.  Fighting  always  does!" 

Claire  dropped  her  wedding-gown  upon  the  couch 
and  she  said,  very  gently: 

"Yes  ...  I  know.  .  .  .  I've  tasted  something 
of  that  myself." 

"I  know  you  have.  ...  I  realized  it  that  night 
at  the  cafe  when  you  had  the  courage  of  your  bitter 
ness  and  insulted  me.  I  was  furious,  of  course! 
I  wanted  to  strike  back,  to  kick  and  scream  and 
claw  the  air.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  .  .  . 
after  we  ...  Flint  and  I  ...  got  home.  He 
let  me  rave  without  saying  a  word.  Oh,  he's  a 
clever  brute  in  his  way,  that  man!  And  when  I'd 
had  it  all  out  he  got  up  and  he  said:  'Take  a  look 
at  yourself  in  the  glass.  If  that  doesn't  cure  you, 
nothing  will.'  And  he  walked  deliberately  out. 
...  I  went  over  to  the  mirror  after  he  had  gone, 
and  I  took  a  look,  a  long,  hard  look.  .  .  .  Next 

304 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

night  he  came  and  pounded  on  my  door — he  was 
drunk.  'I  did  what  you  told  me  last  night,' 
I  called  to  him.  'Go  away!  I'm  cured!'  But 
of  course  I  wasn't!  .  .  .  I've  looked  in  the  glass 
every  day  since.  ...  I  don't  know  just  what 
possessed  me  to  go  and  offer  my  services  to  Doctor 
Danilo.  A  flash  of  the  old  distemper,  I  fancy.  I 
wanted  to  create  a  stir.  I  smiled  when  he  disposed 
of  you  with  so  much  confidence.  I  thought:  'Wait 
until  my  lady  hears;  then  there  will  be  some  fun! 
.  .  .  This  will  be  the  first  difference,  the  first 
quarrel,' I  was  mean  enough  to  imagine.  .  .  .  Then, 
your  note  came.  .  .  .  My  dear  Claire,  for  once  in 
my  life  I  was  without  a  weapon.  .  .  .  Why  didn't 
you  strike  back  and  give  me  a  chance  to  fight?" 

"Well,  to  be  frank,  I  wanted  to  ...  at  first. 
But  I  was  afraid." 

"Of  what  ...  of  me?" 

"Oh,  not  that!  But  Danilo  ...  he  ...  You 
see,  he  is  a  foreigner.  He  has  other  ideas  about 
women  and  their  place  in  the  scheme  of  things.  It 
isn't  exactly  a  feeling  that  he's  superior,  but  mar 
riage  to  him  is  a  partnership  ...  a  partnership 
with  a  senior  member.  And  senior  members — well, 
they  don't  relish  having  their  authority  questioned. 
I'm  explaining  it  very  clumsily.  But  you  under 
stand  I  ..." 

"Afraid,  Claire?  ...  So  soon?  You  must  be 
very  much  in  love  to  ...  to  ..." 

Claire  drew  a  deep  breath.  "And  I've  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you.  ...  I  hope  you  won't  say  anything 
to  Danilo  about  .  .  .  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  I 
have  never  mentioned  Ned  Stillman's  name  to  him." 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Well,  she  had  said  it  and  she  stood  staring, 
wondering  at  the  look  of  dismay  that  seemed  to 
have  fastened  itself  in  an  arrested  flight  upon 
Mrs.  Condor's  face. 

"You  mean  that  .  .  .  that  Danilo  knows  noth 
ing — absolutely  nothing?  I  thought  he  was  a 
friend  of  Ned's?  Why,  it  isn't  possible  that  ..." 

"He  knows  nothing,"  Claire  repeated,  desper 
ately.  "I  mean  to  tell  him,  of  course,  but  just 
now  .  .  ." 

Lily  Condor  tapped  her  lips  with  an  uneasy 
finger.  "You  should  have  warned  me  sooner, 
Claire.  ...  I  said  something  yesterday.  It  was 
a  trifle,  but  I  remember  now  how  he  stared." 

' '  Yes,  yes.     What  was  it  ?" 

"I  said:  'You're  a  lucky  man,  Doctor  Danilo. 
If  Ned  Stillman  hadn't  been  married  you  wouldn't 
have  carried  off  your  prize  so  easily.'  It  was  stupid 
of  me,  one  of  those  indelicate  things  we  say  for 
want  of  sense  enough  to  hold  our  tongues.  I  felt 
for  a  moment  that  I  had  displeased  him,  but  I  had 
no  idea  .  .  .  But,  really,  it's  just  possible  that  he 
didn't  get  my  meaning,  that  ..." 

Claire  shook  her  head.  "I  must  tell  him  now — 
everything." 

She  did  not  see  Danilo  for  two  days.  He  came 
in  finally  at  five  o'clock  one  afternoon  to  look  up 
some  surgical  instruments  that  he  was  in  need  of. 
She  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  when  she  heard  him 
come  up  the  stairs.  She  went  quickly  to  his  door 
and  tapped  upon  it. 

"Mother  has  not  been  so  well,"  she  began,  with- 
306 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

out  waiting  for  his  greeting.    "I  have  been  longing 
to  see  you." 

He  followed  her  into  Mrs.  Robson's  room.  The 
patient  hardly  stirred.  Her  usual  interest  in 
Danilo  seemed  to  be  eclipsed.  Danilo  looked 
grave.  .  .  .  When  Claire  and  he  were  in  the  hall 
again  he  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"I  suppose  you  are  prepared?  .  .  .  Everything 
will  soon  be  over." 

His  tone  was  dry,  professional.  He  seemed  to 
be  making  a  deliberate  effort  to  wound.  Had  he 
been  sympathetic  Claire  would  have  been  over 
come,  but  there  was  something  about  the  scene 
which  chilled  her  emotions.  She  felt  that  the  time 
to  speak  had  come. 

"You  have  guessed,  also,"  she  began,  "that  I 
have  wanted  to  see  you  about  other  things,  too. 
There  are  some  things  which  I  should  like  to  ex 
plain  ...  to  ..." 

He  shrugged  contemptuously.  "Explanations  are 
dull  affairs.  At  least  I  find  them  so.  And  they 
usually  never  explain." 

She  was  stunned.  She  had  thought  always  of 
Danilo  in  terms  of  warmth,  even  of  passion.  She 
had  never  imagined  him  capable  of  such  steely 
malevolence. 

"I  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  went  on,  desper 
ately.  "I  am  willing  to  admit  that,  but  .  .  ." 

"No,  not  a  mistake,  Claire.  Mistakes  are  never 
deliberate." 

She  could  almost  feel  herself  grow  pale.  "Have 
you  come  to  any  decision?"  she  asked. 

"Decision?" 

307 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Well,  I  suppose  that  you  will  wish  to  be  re 
leased  .  .  .  that  our  .  .  .  that  everything  between 
us  is  finished." 

His  eyes  flashed.  "Finished!  It  isn't  as  simple 
as  all  that.  Oh  no!  A  bargain  with  me  is  a  bar 
gain.  When  I  make  a  deal  it  either  goes  through 
or  else  there  is  a  reckoning.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  act 
as  hastily  as  one  might  imagine.  I  believe  in  sifting 
things.  When  I  play  a  game  I  know  every  card 
I  hold."  He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "I  am  still 
looking  over  my  hand!" 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  overcome  by  a  sudden 
faint  ness.  He  passed  her  deliberately  and  went 
into  his  room.  When  he  came  out  she  had  recovered 
herself. 

11  About  mother?"  she  said,  with  a  display  of 
calmness.  "What  am  I  to  expect?" 

"There  is  no  immediate  danger.  But  in  two 
weeks'  time  at  the  most  .  .  .  However,  I  shall 
look  in  again  this  afternoon.  And  every  morning. 
You  may  count  on  that." 

"Then  you  have  decided  to  lodge  somewhere 
else?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  for  the  present." 

She  let  him  go  without  further  questions. 

The  week  passed  in  an  atmosphere  of  arrested 
events.  It  seemed  to  Claire  as  if  the  currents  of 
life  had  become  ominously  frozen,  that  they  were 
storing  up  a  sinister  flood  in  the  icy  chains  of 
apprehension.  Danilo  came  twice  a  day  to  see 
Mrs.  Robson.  He  was  excessively  polite,  unbend 
ing,  professional.  Claire  was  powerless  before  such 

308 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

premeditated  cruelty.  The  night  of  the  concert 
drew  near.  Danilo  never  so  much  as  mentioned 
it.  Finally  Claire  gathered  the  courage  to  tele 
phone  Mrs.  Condor. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  ''that  everything  is  going 
according  to  schedule.  Really,  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  talk  to  Danilo  about  it.  He  has  been 
so  busy." 

The  upshot  of  this  telephone  message  was  that 
Mrs.  Condor  called  in  the  afternoon. 

''Confess!"  she  said  to  Claire.  "Things  have 
gone  wrong." 

"He  won't  allow  me  to  explain.  ...  It  is  hor 
rible  !  I  don't  know  what  to  do !  And  my  mother 
is  dying!  .  .  .  How  much  do  you  fancy  he  knows?" 

' '  Everything  or  nothing !  It  is  hard  to  say.  But 
you  must  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  now.  No  falter 
ing!  ...  Be  as  dignified  as  you  can.  Men  like 
that  are  dangerous!  It  may  be  that  he  is  merely 
suffering,  that  he  can't  speak  out  yet!  When  he 
does  .  .  ."  She  gave  a  significant  shrug. 

Claire  folded  and  unfolded  her  handkerchief, 
crumpled  it  into  a  ball,  tore  at  it  with  her  firm 
finger-nails. 

"Words  .  .  .  insults  .  .  .  anything  would  be 
better  than  this  silence.  I  have  never  been  so 
frightened." 

Mrs.  Condor's  visit  relieved  the  strain  somewhat, 
but  Claire  was  still  strung  with  a  tense  emotion 
that  found  expression  in  a  restless  physical  activity. 
She  even  helped  Miss  Proll  with  the  sewing, 
although  there  were  moments  when  the  absurdity 
of  all  this  preparation  struck  her  with  a  force  which 

309 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

almost  brought  the  laughter  to  her  lips.  But  this 
wedding-trousseau  had  become  a  passion  with  Miss 
Proll.  Claire  could  not  conceive  of  halting  its 
preparation. 

Once  it  struck  her  that  there  was  a  decided  im 
propriety  about  appearing  in  a  concert,  with  her 
mother  so  near  the  gate  of  life's  solution.  Impro 
priety?  She  pondered  the  word.  And  at  once  a 
revulsion  swayed  her.  She  was  sick  of  all  these 
pallid  phrases  of  expediency.  One  could  act 
indifferently  or  harshly  or  irreverently  at  such  a 
crisis,  but  it  was  too  dreadful  and  austere  a  cir 
cumstance  for  so  smug  an  indiscretion  as  impro 
priety.  She  knew  what  her  mother  would  have 
advised  on  a  like  occasion. 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,  Claire.  People  might 
think  it  strange." 

This  formula,  then,  was  all  that  was  left  of  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  death  —  of  even  the 
glowing  pageantry  of  life;  love  and  hate  and  desire 
reduced  to  colorless  shadows  blown  monotonously 
about  the  lantern  of  existence  by  the  steady  heat 
waves  of  public  opinion! 

It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  excuse  herself,  to 
say  to  Danilo : 

"You  see  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  play  next 
Friday  night.  Please  make  other  arrangements." 

In  reality,  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  release 
her,  and,  since  he  seemed  determined  to  make  her 
cry  for  quarter,  all  her  pride  rose  to  meet  the  issue 
courageously.  It  was  pride  that  lifted  her  head 
above  the  choking  dust  of  misfortune — arrogant, 
blind,  magnificent  human  pride. 

310 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"...  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip." 
Claire   Robson   did  not  need   this   admonition 
from  Mrs.  Condor. 

There  were  also  moments  of  hectic  retrospec 
tion.  Incidents  old  but  vital  came  surging  over 
Claire  in  a  flood-tide.  Looking  back,  it  seemed 
as  if  no  circumstance  was  too  trivial  but  that  it 
yielded  up  some  fragment  which  fitted  into  the 
intricate  pattern  of  her  life.  She  had  thought  of 
this  life  of  hers  always  in  terms  of  uneventful- 
ness,  mistaking  mere  incident  for  emotional  ex 
perience.  But  she  was  surprised  to  discover  what 
depths  she  had  sounded,  what  heights  she  had 
scaled  in  the  solitary  excursions  that  her  spirit  had 
chanced. 

People  came  and  went  like  noonday  ghosts  — 
Mrs.  Finnegan,  Nellie  Holmes,  Mrs.  Towne,  Doctor 
Stoddard.  Claire  felt  their  personalities  moving 
about  her,  but  the  wings  of  Death  cast  too  heavy 
a  shadow  for  her  to  do  more  than  sense  their 
presence. 

Only  Danilo's  passionately  sneering  face  had  the 
faculty  of  bringing  Claire  up  with  a  round  turn 
to  a  sudden  realization  that  she  had  escaped  only 
temporarily  into  a  world  of  unrealities.  It  was 
as  if  the  payment  on  a  note  had  been  suspended 
with  refined  cruelty — the  day  of  reckoning  futilely 
postponed. 

When  she  thought  of  him  it  was  with  a  quicken 
ing  of  the  heart,  a  swooning  fear,  a  feeling  of  dread 
ful  nausea.  Afraid!  She  knew  the  meaning  of 
this  word  now. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Lily  Condor  ran  in  again  the  day  before  the 
concert. 

"I  called  at  Danilo's  office  to-day,"  she  said, 
"just  out  of  sheer  curiosity.  ...  I  don't  know 
.  .  .  perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  if  we  didn't 
go  through  with  this  farce  of  doing  a  turn  to 
morrow  night.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think?  I  could 
pretend  that  I  was  ill?" 

"Why?  .  .  .  What  is  it?    Do  you  think  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  like  his  look.  He  was  most  polite.  .  .  . 
I  think  he  could  have  killed  me." 

"Nonsense!"  Claire  returned,  boldly.  "You're 
drawing  on  your  imagination.  I  want  to  do  it.  .  .  . 
I  have  a  reason." 

She  realized  the  absurdity  of  such  a  statement 
as  soon  as  Mrs.  Condor  had  departed.  A  reason! 
And  her  mother  was  dying — dying!  What  would 
people  think?  Unconsciously  the  old  question 
framed  itself. 

Danilo  came  in  as  usual,  close  upon  the  heels  of 
Mrs.  Condor. 

"Your  mother  is  slightly  better,"  he  said  to 
Claire.  "She  may  last  another  month." 

Claire  tried  to  ignore  the  insolence  of  his  brevity. 

"I  wish  you  would  do  me  a  favor,"  she  ventured, 
boldly.  "I've  been  trying  to  get  Nellie  Holmes 
on  the  telephone  all  day.  .  .  .  Would  you  mind 
asking  her  if  she  could  come  and  stay  with  mother 
to-morrow  night  from  eight  o'clock  to  about  ten? 
I  hate  to  leave  Miss  Proll  all  the  responsibility." 

He  merely  bowed  his  acquiescence.  She  felt  her 
cheeks  burning.  He  had  done  none  of  the  things 
she  had  expected  him  to  do — asked  none  of  the 

312 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

questions.  At  least  she  had  expected  him  to 
say: 

"Oh,  then  you  have  decided  to  appear  to 
morrow  ?" 

No,  he  had  insulted  her  with  his  silence,  pre 
tending  to  be  neither  surprised  nor  shocked.  But 
his  attitude  confirmed  her  in  the  determination 
to  carry  out  her  part  of  the  program. 

On  Friday  morning  the  society  columns  of  the 
newspapers  were  twittering  with  the  fact  of  Claire 
Robson's  appearance  upon  the  concert  stage  in  aid 
of  her  fiance's  native  land.  This  was  the  last 
time  the  public  would  have  a  chance  to  view  her 
as  Miss  Robson.  In  fact,  it  might  be  the  last  time 
that  San  Francisco  would  have  a  chance  to  view 
her  publicly  at  all!  These  statements  carried  an 
air  of  civic  calamity  that  must  have  appalled  every 
shop-girl  who  thrilled  to  their  romantic  suggestion. 
Previously  Claire  had  been  able  to  smile  over  the 
transparent  fiction  of  the  daily  press  concerning 
her  obscure  self,  but  now  she  caught  a  suggestion 
of  irony,  of  bitter  cruelty,  of  withering  scorn  run 
ning  through  all  this  silly  chatter.  She  felt  that 
it  had  been  inspired  by  Danilo;  between  the  lines 
she  could  almost  shape  his  sneering  lips,  thin  and 
pallid  where  they  had  once  been  full  and  scarlet. 

That  morning  when  he  came  to  see  his  patient 
his  eyes  were  burning  like  livid  coals,  his  cheeks 
were  sunken,  his  hand  shook  as  he  drew  back  the 
covers  to  look  at  Mrs.  Robson's  gray  face.  And 
as  Claire  watched  him  she  saw  a  tear  roll  down  the 
full  length  of  his  cheek  and  drop  unashamed  upon 
the  rumpled  linen.  She  felt  a  great  longing  then, 

21  313 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  yearning  to  go  up  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
cheeks  and  draw  his  face  to  hers  and  to  sit  while 
he  knelt  beside  her  and  poured  out  his  full  grief 
in  a  cleansing  flood.  But,  instead,  she  stood  proudly 
aloof  and  the  golden  moment  of  opportunity  was 
swallowed  up. 

"I  will  not  come  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  at 
parting.  "You  may  expect  a  taxi  at  eight-thirty." 

She  felt  an  impulse  to  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 
But  again  she  could  not  rise  to  such  humility. 

She  watched  him  go  slowly  down  the  steps  with 
the  weak  tread  of  one  consumed  by  a  fever.  He 
had  changed  completely  overnight.  He  gave  one 
look  back  before  he  closed  the  door — the  look  of 
a  wounded  beast  staggering  through  a  welter  of 
heart's  blood. 

Claire  Robson  brought  her  hands  quickly  up 
to  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  would  I  wear  if  I  were  you?" 
Miss  Proll,  echoing  Claire's  question,  swept 
the  array  of  finery  upon  the  bed  with  a  critical  eye 
and  finally  drew  forth  the  iridescent  peacock-blue 
dress  with  which  Claire  had  startled  even  the 
patrons  of  the  Cafe  Ithaca. 

Claire  shook  her  head.  '  *  It's  cut  rather  too  low, ' ' 
she  said. 

But  Miss  Proll  would  not  listen  to  any  such  ar 
gument.  "I've  a  black-lace  shawl  .  .  .  my  moth 
er's.  If  you  put  that  about  your  shoulders  ..." 

Claire  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded.  She 
had  very  little  heart  in  the  adventure,  anyway,  and 
Miss  Proll  seemed  to  be  taking  such  a  tremulous 
joy  in  being  daring  by  proxy.  In  the  end  the 
results  justified  the  choice.  The  black-lace  shawl 
tempered  the  gown's  wanton  splendor,  and,  lacking 
any  exaggeration  of  hair  or  complexion,  Claire's 
personality  glowed  warmly  but  without  flare.  She 
emerged  neither  the  Claire  of  church-social  evenings 
nor  Cafe  Ithaca  midnights,  but  a  Claire  tempered 
into  the  crucible  of  both  these  divergent  experiences. 

Nellie  Holmes,  answering  the  message  sent 
through  Danilo,  arrived  in  time  to  put  one  or  two 
deft  touches  to  the  general  effect,  a  twist  here  and 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

a  soft  pat  there,  that  added  a  chic  note  to  Miss 
Proll's  rather  prim  efforts. 

"Well,  Robson,"  she  said,  standing  off  critically, 
"but  you  do  give  swell  clothes  a  chance,  don't  you? 
Friend  Danilo  ought  to  throw  his  chest  out  about 
twelve  inches  when  he  gets  his  eyes  on  you  to-night. 
By  the  way,  what  is  the  matter  with  him?  He  looks 
like  a  sick  kitten  that's  been  rained  on.  I  never  did 
see  such  a  sad  comedian.  The  face  he's  wearing 
these  days  ain't  much  of  a  compliment  to  you." 

The  taxicab  came  promptly  at  half  past  eight. 

Claire  went  in  to  say  good-by  to  her  mother. 
But  Mrs.  Robson  merely  opened  her  eyes,  and 
closed  them  again. 

"I  don't  think  she  knows  me,"  Claire  faltered. 
"I  wonder  whether  I  ought  to  go?  What  do  you 
think,  Nell?  The  whole  thing  seems  such  a  farce!" 

Her  passionate  exclamation  brought  a  question 
ing  lift  of  the  eyebrows  to  Nellie  Holmes 's  face. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Robson?  Your  mother  is 
all  right.  ...  I  don't  think  Danilo  would  let  you 
leave  if  ...  Tell  me,  have  you  and  Danilo  ..." 

"No.  I'm  just  tired,  Nell.  Let  me  go  and  have 
it  over  with." 

She  released  herself  from  her  friend's  implied 
embrace  and  went  down  to  the  waiting  taxi. 

She  met  Lily  Condor  in  the  hallway  of  the  St. 
Francis,  almost  at  the  door  of  the  dressing-room. 

"I've  just  taken  a  look  in  at  the  audience," 
Mrs.  Condor  said.  "The  place  is  packed.  Even 
the  real  people  have  come  early  to-night.  It's 
plain  that  you're  the  attraction." 

316 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  tried  to  turn  this  observation  off  with  a 
laugh,  but  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  Lily  Condor 
was  right.  The  newspaper  chatter  had  had  its  effect. 

Mrs.  Condor  swept  on  the  stage  a  little  ahead 
of  Claire  at  precisely  fifteen  minutes  past  nine. 
A  patter  of  applause  greeted  her.  But  a  moment 
later  Claire  came  into  view,  and  a  clapping  of  hands, 
out  of  all  proportion  to  her  position  as  accompanist, 
rippled  through  the  room.  Claire  stood  for  the 
briefest  of  moments  facing  the  throng,  bending 
slightly  forward  in  acknowledgment  of  the  recog 
nition  given  her.  But  in  that  short  time  it  seemed 
that  she  had  taken  note  of  every  familiar  face  in 
the  crowd  below — Stillman,  Flint  without  his  wife, 
and,  farther  back,  Miss  Munch  and  Mrs.  Richards, 
Mrs.  Finnegan  and  "the  old  man,"  Doctor  Stod- 
dard,  Mrs.  Towne,  even  Lycurgus  and  a  half -score 
of  the  Ithaca  patrons,  including  a  few  of  the  old 
entertainers  headed  by  Doris,  the  French  Jewess. 
They  were  all  applauding  heartily,  except  Miss 
Munch  and  her  cousin. 

"What  irony!"  flashed  through  Claire's  mind 
as  she  took  her  seat  before  the  piano. 

Six  months  ago  she  had  been  starving  for  just  the 
recognition  that  was  now  her  portion.  To-night  she 
found  applause  empty  of  any  real  meaning.  And  the 
presence  of  these  people  who  had  colored  her  life 
made  her  feel  as  if  all  the  joys  and  hopes  and  fears  of 
her  existence  had  been  suddenly  made  flesh  and  were 
sitting  in  judgment  upon  her.  She  began  to  play. 

Presently  Lily  Condor's  voice  came  to  her— 
remote,  unreal,  a  thin,  clear  stream  of  song  like 
the  trickling  of  some  screened  fountain. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Mrs.  Condor  is  singing  well  to-night,"  she 
thought. 

At  the  end  of  three  numbers  the  applause  was 
still  insistent,  but  Mrs.  Condor  denied  the  clamor 
with  a  smiling  shake  of  the  head.  Flowers  began 
to  be  handed  up  —  orchids  and  roses  and  carna 
tions  and  flamboyant  peonies.  Claire  passed  Mrs. 
Condor  a  share  of  the  bloom  and  together  they 
bowed  their  acknowledgments.  They  came  back 
upon  the  stage  for  a  fourth  and  last  time.  It  was 
then  that  Claire  caught  glimpses  of  others  whose 
presence  had  escaped  her — her  two  aunts,  Billy 
Holmes  sitting  alone,  and  back,  far  back,  standing 
with  his  hands  folded  in  a  sort  of  dreadful  resigna 
tion,  Danilo,  his  lips  still  pallid  and  the  hollows 
in  his  cheeks  showing  up  even  in  the  distance. 

"You  did  beautifully,"  Claire  said  to  Mrs.  Con 
dor  as  they  gained  the  cloak-room. 

"Yes  ...  I  know  .  .  .  Because  I  realized  that 
it  was  for  the  last  time.  .  .  .  I'm  through." 

She  tossed  Claire's  flowers  upon  a  lounge  and 
went  back  to  hear  the  next  number. 

Claire  looked  over  the  cards  attached  to  the 
bouquets.  The  orchids  were  from  Stillman,  roses 
from  Nellie  Holmes,  a  flaming  bunch  of  carnations 
from  Lycurgus,  and  —  she  looked  twice  at  the 
card — the  peonies  bore  Flint's  name.  .  .  .  Not  a 
sign  from  Danilo! 

She  decided  to  go  home.  She  looked  about  for 
the  attendant  in  charge  of  the  wraps,  and  discov 
ered  that  the  room  was  empty.  The  sound  of  a 
violin  floated  from  the  concert  platform.  She 
went  out  and  glanced  down  the  passageway.  The 

318 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

maid  was  standing  in  a  screened  position  by  the 
entrance  to  the  hall,  listening.  Claire  went  back 
and  sat  down  upon  the  lounge  beside  her  flowers, 
and  as  she  did  so  Danilo  stepped  into  the  room. 
She  rose  with  a  quick  movement  of  protest. 

"Really— you  mustn't!"  she  objected.  "This  is 
the  ladies'  dressing-room.*' 

He  ignored  her  with  a  malignant  smile;  he  did 
not  speak.  But  he  walked  rapidly  toward  the  heap 
of  flowers  and  began  to  snatch  at  the  attached 
cards  with  sudden  fury. 

"Stillman!"  he  sneered.  "Holmes — Lycurgus — 
Flint!"  He  looked  at  her  with  glittering  eyes. 
" Then  it  is  so!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Flint!"  he  cried.  He  tore  the  card  into  bits 
and  flung  them  to  the  ground.  "So  we  men  are 
all  alike?  Well,  you  ought  to  know!  You  have 
had  experience  enough.  What  a  fool  I  have  been! 
What  a  jooll  Well,  I  am  not  like  the  rest  of  them !" 

She  drew  away.  His  brow  had  curdled  with  bitter 
intensity.  He  took  her  arm  in  a  firm  grip  and  drew 
a  pistol  from  his  pocket. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  He  held  the  weapon  up 
to  her.  "I  bought  that  yesterday  to  call  the  man 
out  and  shoot  him.  .  .  .  Then  I  heard  that  there 
was  another.  Well,  in  my  country  we  do  not 
waste  more  than  one  bullet." 

His  eyes  fell  upon  her  with  a  mad  fury,  yet  she 
faced  him  calmly,  almost  unafraid. 

"Why  don't  I  scream?"  she  asked  herself.  "He 
intends  to  kill  me  .  .  .  here!  And  yet  I  am  not 
even  trying  to  .  .  ." 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

And  suddenly  she  discovered  that  he  had  a  great 
black  smudge  on  his  nose.  She  wanted  to  laugh. 

"In  my  country  we  do  not  waste  more  than  one 
bullet!"  he  was  repeating. 

"Yes  ...  I  heard  you.  You  don't  have  to 
shout!  I'm  not  deaf!"  she  could  hear  herself 
saying. 

He  lifted  the  pistol  higher,  on  a  level  with  her 
mouth.  She  could  see  by  the  glitter  in  his  eyes 
that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  a  dreadful  frenzy. 

1 1  Temporary  insanity !  That  will  be  his  defense ! ' ' 
she  thought  at  once. 

And  she  pictured  herself  lying  before  him  in  a- 
crimson  pool,  saw  a  black,  surging  crowd  pushing 
into  the  dressing-room  from  the  hotel  corridors, 
felt  herself  lifted  up  tenderly  by  some  one.  Would 
Ned  Stillman  pick  her  up  ?  Or  perhaps  Flint?  .  .  . 
She  imagined  the  trial — Danilo  pale  and  grief -worn, 
incapable  of  caring  whether  he  lived  or  died,  ob 
livious  to  his  surroundings.  Temporary  insanity 
.  .  .  that  would  be  his  lawyer's  plea.  .  .  .  The 
black  smudge  was  still  there  ...  it  was  too  ridicu 
lous!  She  fumbled  with  her  free  hand  and,  lifting 
the  edge  of  Miss  Proll's  lace  shawl  deliberately, 
wiped  the  spot  from  the  tip  of  Danilo's  nose. 

At  that  moment  she  heard  a  sharp  report,  glass 
came  crashing  to  the  floor. 

"Well,  at  least  his  face  is  clean!"  flashed  through 
her  mind.  .  .  .  She  felt  herself  sinking  backward.  .  .  . 


"Yes,  a  pistol-shot!"  the  maid  was  reiterating. 
Claire  opened  her  eyes.     She  was  lying  upon 
320 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

the  lounge  and  the  flowers  had  been  thrown  un 
ceremoniously  upon  the  floor  and  were  being 
trampled  underfoot.  The  orchids,  crushed  and 
abandoned,  looked  particularly  sorry.  She  had 
an  impulse  to  rise  and  rescue  them. 

1 '  Nonsense !"  It  was  Lily  Condor's  voice.  ' '  She 
merely  fainted.  What  you  heard  must  have  been 
falling  glass.  She  struck  the  mirror  as  she  fell." 

An  enormous  relief  came  over  Claire.  She 
closed  her  eyes  again.  "Where  is  Danilo?"  she 
asked  herself .  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  remembered  every 
detail  of  what  had  gone  before — the  pistol,  the  black 
smudge,  the  sharp  report,  the  crash  of  falling  glass. 
It  was  the  black  smudge  on  Danilo's  nose  that  had 
saved  her.  She  realized  that  now.  What  a  ridic 
ulous  thing  life  was,  anyway!  And  what  trivial 
circumstances  determined  its  issues!  The  wrong 
seats  at  a  church  social  had  yielded  her  Stillman. 
A  black  smudge  upon  the  nose  of  an  emotionally 
shaken  man  had  snatched  her  from  death.  What 
grotesque  impulse  had  moved  her  to  reach  forward 
at  the  critical  moment  and  flick  the  tip  of  Danilo's 
nose  with  Miss  Proll's  lace  shawl?  Miss  ProlVs 
lace  shawl!  Suppose  she  had  not  worn  it?  Would 
she  have  attempted  to  remove  the  speck  with  a 
bare  finger?  She  doubted  it.  Then  even  Miss 
Proll's  lace  shawl  had  played  its  part!  It  was  all 
very  puzzling;  the  pattern  of  life  became  too 
intricate,  too  full  of  flaming  colors  that  in  the 
weaving  seemed  of  dullest  drab.  .  .  .  The  muffled 
talking  about  her  began  again. 

11  Excuse  me  for  troubling  you,"  she  heard  Mrs. 
Condor  say,  "but  Claire  here  ...  I  have  looked 

321 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

all  over  for  Danilo.  .  .  .  Oh,  nothing  serious !  .  .  . 
Her  mother  ...  A  little  old  maid?  It  must  be 
the  dressmaker  who  .  .  .  Yes,  bring  her  in,  by 
all  means." 

Claire  roused  herself.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  couch  when  Ned  Stillman  came  through 
the  door  with  Miss  Proll.  Claire  understood  at 
once.  She  rose  to  her  feet.  Lily  Condor  started 
toward  her. 

"Oh  no — really,  I  am  quite  all  right.  What  is 
the  matter?  Is  my  mother  ..." 

"Yes,"  answered  Miss  Proll.  "You  had  better 
come  at  once." 

Stillman  went  to  call  a  taxicab.  Mrs.  Condor 
helped  Claire  into  her  wrap.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  they  were  all  standing  at  the  curb,  ready 
to  step  into  the  vibrating  car.  Stillman  lifted  the 
ladies  in.  He  was  drawing  back  when  Claire  thrust 
her  head  out  and  said: 

"Won't  you  please  come,  too?  I  am  not  sure 
about  Danilo,  and  ..." 

He  climbed  in,  slamming  the  door. 

Claire  went  into  her  mother's  room  alone. 
Nellie  Holmes  was  bending  anxiously  over  the 
sufferer. 

"You  have  come  in  time,"  Nellie  was  saying 
as  she  yielded  her  place  to  Claire. 

Mrs.  Robson  looked  up  bewildered.  For  a  mo 
ment  her  dull  eyes  roamed  restlessly  about  as  if 
in  search  of  some  missing  thing.  Finally,  with 
a  great  effort  the  words  shaped  themselves.  Claire 
listened  attentively. 

322 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Danilo  .  .  .  where  is  Danilo?" 
"Yes  ...  in  a  moment.  .  .  .  Presently." 
Mrs.  Robson  closed  her  eyes  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction.     It  was  her  last  conscious  moment. 
Slowly  she  fell  into  a  stupor.  .  .  .  Toward  mid 
night  she  died. 

It  was  all  very  simple,  Claire  thought  afterward. 
Much  simpler  than  living. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  not  until  people  on  the  street  began  to 
stare  that  Danilo  discovered  that  he  had  come 
away  from  the  hotel  without  his  hat.  He  felt  no 
discomfort,  but  he  was  annoyed  at  being  an  object 
of  curiosity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  curiously 
devoid  of  any  emotional  excitement;  instead,  his 
wits  seemed  to  have  been  sharpened  by  a  cool  cun 
ning.  All  his  powers  of  reasoning  were  reduced  to 
one  impulse — flight.  He  decided  that  he  must  walk 
on  and  on  without  a  halt.  His  escape  from  the  hotel 
had  been  extraordinarily  easy.  He  merely  had 
shoved  his  smoking  pistol  into  his  hip  pocket  and 
walked  calmly  out.  If  he  had  attempted  to  run, 
or  looked  about  excitedly,  or  even  slunk  by  the 
liveried  flunky  at  the  revolving  door,  all  would 
have  been  lost.  But  he  had  done  none  of  these 
things  and  he  was  feeling  a  certain  arrogance  at 
the  thought  of  his  bravado.  But  he  realized  that 
he  must  get  a  covering  for  his  head.  It  was  ridicu 
lous  to  be  sauntering  along  the  street  hatless.  He 
beckoned  a  youth  who  stood  near  the  curb,  smok 
ing  a  cigarette. 

"I  should  like  to  buy  your  cap,"  he  said,  simply. 

The  young  man  stared,  then  broke  into  a  laugh. 
4 'All  right!"  he  replied,  quickly,  as  if  it  were  the 

324 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

best  to  humor  a  madman.  "But  it  will  cost  you 
money." 

"How  much?" 

"Two  dollars/' 

Danilo  gravely  counted  out  the  money.  The 
youth  drew  back,  instinctively  clapping  a  hand 
upon  his  head. 

"Come!"  cried  Danilo,  roughly.  "It  will  not 
do  for  you  to  trifle  with  me.  You  set  your  price. 
Here  is  the  money.  I  want  that  cap!" 

The  youth  turned  pale  and  attempted  to  run. 
Danilo  grasped  him  firmly  by  the  shoulder. 

"Give  me  that  cap!"  insisted  Danilo. 

The  youth  obeyed,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
One  or  two  passers-by  halted,  stared  a  moment, 
and  passed  on,  shrugging  their  shoulders  indiffer 
ently. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Danilo.  "You  have  done 
me  a  great  favor.  Here  is  the  two  dollars.  May 
God  reward  you."  As  he  said  this  he  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  in  midair  above  the  boy's  head. 
The  boy  cowered  and  began  to  whimper.  Danilo 
put  on  the  cap  and  walked  away. 

He  felt  more  at  ecise  now;  no  one  was  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  him.  He  decided  to  go  into 
a  saloon  and  buy  something  to  drink.  The  bar 
tender,  stout  and  genial  and  Irish,  passed  him  the 
Bottle  of  whisky.  Danilo's  hand  shook  as  he 
poured  out  his  drink.  The  Irishman  eyed  him 
quizzically. 

"I  have  just  had  r.n  unpleasant  experience," 
Danilo  began,  apologetically,  as  he  spilled  some  of 
the  whisky.  "I  saw  a  woman  shot."  The  bar- 

325 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

keeper  seemed  unimpressed.  Danilo  felt  annoyed. 
"At  the  St.  Francis  Hotel  ...  in  the  dressing- 
room,  off  the  Colonial  Ballroom.  .  .  .  She  had 
been  fooling  a  man.  I  was  so  excited  I  walked 
out  of  the  hotel  without  my  hat.  .  .  .  This  cap— 
I  bought  it  from  a  boy  on  the  street.  Is  it  not 
droll?" 

The  Irishman  put  the  cork  in  the  whisky-bottle 
and  set  it  in  its  place  under  the  bar. 

"The  man  was  a  fool!"  he  said,  bluntly.  "I'd 
like  to  see  myself  take  a  chance  at  swinging  for  the 
likes  of  any  woman." 

"Oh,  you  are  mistaken!"  Danilo  returned,  mildly. 
"The  man  who  shot  this  woman  will  not  swing." 

"Oh,  well,  if  she  gets  better,  of  course  ..." 

Danilo  leaned  forward.  "Better?  ...  Oh  no, 
my  friend,  she  is  dead,  quite  dead.  He  aimed  at 
her  mouth.  ...  I  saw  her  fall.  ...  But  the  man 
will  not  swing.  He  is  not  that  kind.  He  will  shoot 
himself  first." 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  returned  the  barkeeper. 
"He  was  a  fool!" 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about!" 
Danilo  cried,  hotly. 

"Neither  do  you!"  said  the  other,  with  an  indul 
gent  laugh. 

Danilo  gulped  the  whisky  in  silence  and  went 
out  with  a  morose  air. 

"A  fool?  ...  A  fool?  .  .  ."  he  kept  repeating. 

The  issue  was  at  once  irritating  and  impersonal. 
He  felt  as  if  the  barkeeper  had  affronted  the  whole 
masculine  sex.  A  man  was  a  fool  for  allowing  him 
self  to  be  taken  in,  he  was  quite  ready  to  grant  that. 

326 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

But  no  man  was  a  fool  for  collecting  the  full  toll 
of  feminine  duplicity.  Now  this  man,  in  the  dress 
ing-room  of  the  St.  Francis  Hotel,  who  had  shot 
down  a  woman  .  .  . 

Danilo  halted.  Why,  the  man  was  he — himself! 
Somehow  it  had  never  occurred  to  him.  He  had 
the  same  feeling  that  comes  in  dreams,  when  one 
is  in  some  mysterious  way  both  the  actor  and  the 
audience.  He  had  been  in  the  picture  and  out  of 
it.  It  was  all  very  puzzling. 

He  tried  to  review  the  incidents  of  the  evening. 
Nothing  was  very  clear.  The  sound  of  a  pistol- 
shot  was  the  most  vivid  memory;  then  somebody 
had  fallen.  .  .  .  The  woman  was  dead — it  could 
not  be  otherwise!  Why  had  he  walked  away  so 
calmly?  He  should  have  stayed.  After  all,  he 
was  a  physician  and  he  had  acted  unprofessionally. 
It  was  a  physician's  place  to  remain  and  serve,  even 
in  the  face  of  utter  hopelessness.  Well,  he  had 
come  away  and  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  He 
was  very  tired.  He  looked  about  him.  He  had 
drifted  down  to  the  water-front. 

He  went  into  a  cheap  lodging-house  and  paid 
for  a  room.  The  place  was  frowzy  and  ill-smelling, 
but  he  did  not  care.  He  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed.  The  dreamlike  quality  of  what  had  trans 
pired  still  persisted.  He  had  added  another  role 
to  the  drama,  that  of  physician.  He  had  been  the 
murderer,  the  spectator,  the  physician.  But  he 
could  not  get  under  the  skin  of  the  victim.  He 
seemed  to  be  able  to  recall  every  detail  but  her 
face — the  blue-green  dress,  the  black-lace  shawl,  the 
white  tapering  arm  upraised  as  she  flicked  the  end 

327 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

of  his  nose.  It  was  then,  as  the  murderer,  he  had 
pulled  the  trigger.  ...  In  the  r61e  of  frightened 
spectator  he  had  walked  out  of  the  hotel.  .  .  . 
As  physician  he  had  remembered  his  duty  and 
chided  himself.  .  .  .  He  took  a  cigarette  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  smoke.  He  lay  there  for 
hours,  thinking,  thinking.  But  he  could  not  see 
the  victim's  face.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  toward  morning  he  sat  up. 

"Ah,  I  have  it!  The  woman  was  Claire.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it  is  Claire  who  is  dead!  ..." 

He  fell  back  with  the  satisfaction  of  one  who 
has  solved  an  irritating  puzzle. 

He  awoke  at  noon.  He  was  neither  surprised 
nor  dazed  at  finding  himself  in  a  strange  environ 
ment.  Sleep  had  settled  all  the  dust-clouds  of 
thought.  He  remembered  everything  perfectly. 
He  was  a  murderer,  and  he  had  killed  a  woman 
because  he  had  not  been  wise  or  prudent  enough 
to  content  himself  with  the  fruits  of  a  tempered, 
frugal  passion.  He  did  not  rouse  himself.  He 
had  no  wish  except  to  lie  still  and  think. 

Looking  back,  he  could  see  that  he  always  had 
felt  uncertain  about  Claire.  Somehow  she  was 
not  altogether  a  virginal  type.  She  was  a  woman 
who,  lacking  any  concrete  experiences,  would  men 
tally  create  stimulating  situations.  Even  now 
he  admired  her,  but  love  was  mysteriously  killed. 
Yet  he  had  loved  her  last  night!  And  never  so 
ardently,  so  completely  as  at  that  moment  when  he 
had  brought  his  pistol  upon  a  level  with  her  lips 
and  done  his  worst. 

328 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

But  this  morning  he  seemed  swept  clean  of  all 
feeling,  love  and  hate  and  enthusiasm,  every  sensa 
tion  killed  utterly — dead!  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Claire  Robson  had  absorbed  every  hope,  every 
expectation,  making  of  them  a  living  thing  in  her 
own  image  that  died  with  her?  Had  she  betrayed 
not  only  him,  but  all  his  visions?  What  had  be 
come  of  the  far-flung  horizons  which  he  had  al 
ways  seen  so  clearly?  One  black  cloud  had  eclipsed 
them  all. 

He  remembered  the  serene  blueness  of  the  day 
on  which  that  black  cloud  had  sprung  out  of  the 
south,  a  misty-white  fledgling  of  the  sky  that  grew 
with  the  hours  until  the  sun  was  wrapped  in  a  dull 
gloom.  How  quickly  Mrs.  Condor's  words  had 
expanded  and  drawn  every  drifting  rumor  to  their 
confirmation!  He  had  heard  it  all — everything. 
It  amazed  him  to  discover  how  easily  the  truth  was 
uncovered.  Uncovered?  No,  it  had  lacked  even 
the  virtue  of  concealment ;  it  lay,  noxious  and  fester 
ing  and  unscreened,  a  rich  feast  for  the  scandal 
mongers  circling  vulture-like  above.  But  his  flight 
toward  happiness  had  been  like  the  eagle's,  too 
swift  and  lofty  and  disdainful  for  such  unlovely 
sights;  eagerly,  blindly  he  had  passed  them  by.  He 
recalled  with  a  shudder  the  morning  that  he  had 
gone  and  bought  the  pistol.  This  he  had  intended 
for  Stillman.  But  the  very  thought  of  it  had  cut 
him  to  the  heart.  It  was  only  when  he  had  re 
flected  on  that  million  dollars  for  the  Serbian  cause 
that  he  found  himself  submerged  in  bitterness. 
This  was  the  crowning  insult,  the  culminating  de 
ception!  The  wage  of  Claire  Robson's  shame 
22  329 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

offered  in  the  guise  of  a  free  gift !     No  wonder  that 
the  donor  withheld  his  name! 

"In  my  country  it  is  all  very  simple — we  call 
the  man  out  and  shoot  him!'* 

How  poignantly  these  words  had  come  back  to 
Danilo  in  his  agony!  But  it  had  not  been  simple. 
.  .'  .  He  wondered  if  he  were  losing  the  naive 
directness  of  his  forefathers.  There  had  been  mo 
ments  when  he  was  almost  persuaded  that  it  was 
not  his  affair,  after  all.  Claire  Robson  did  not 
belong  to  him;  she  never  had.  There  was  no  logic 
in  exacting  a  price  from  any  one  who  had  taken 
unclaimed  property.  But  there  had  been  inso 
lence  and  trickery  back  of  the  performance.  .  .  . 
A  million  dollars  for  the  Serbian  cause!  Not  only 
he,  but  his  country,  was  to  have  been  smirched  by 
the  patronage  of  these  two  moral  derelicts.  The 
purity  of  his  passion  for  Claire  Robson  had  sharp 
ened  his  sense  of  human  delinquency  and  given 
him  the  uncompromising  judgments  of  virtue.  .  .  . 
Well,  he  had  decided  upon  Stillman.  Some  one 
must  pay  the  price  and  the  woman  he  loved  did  not 
yet  seem  foul  enough  for  the  sacrifice.  .  .  .  Then 
it  was  that  his  ferretings  had  hunted  out  the 
Flint  story.  From  that  moment  he  had  been 
gripped  by  a  blind  fury.  His  thoughts  had  grown 
black,  formless,  devastating.  He  had  been  deliber 
ately  betrayed — the  woman  he  loved  did  not  exist, 
not  even  potentially.  It  was  not  a  question  of 
what  might  have  been.  One  did  not  gather  figs 
from  thistles.  And  above  all  this  angry  tumult 
within  him  there  rose  something  cool  and  malevo 
lent  and  sinister,  the  fruits  of  wounded  vanity  and 

330 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

outraged  pride.  .  .  .  And  now  it  was  all  over. 
He  wondered  whether  he  would  be  capable  of  an 
emotion  again.  Would  he  continue  to  think  with 
out  the  respite  of  being  able  to  feel,  to  lie  and  stare 
unmoved  at  the  mangled  form  of  his  dead  hopes? 
At  the  sound  of  the  pistol  he  had  closed  his  eyes 
upon  the  horrid  sight  which  he  knew  must  follow. 
Blood  was  nothing  to  him,  but  the  vision  of  Claire's 
shattered  loveliness  was  too  terrible  to  face.  How 
easy  it  was  to  screen  the  senses  from  ugliness! 
Why  was  it  not  possible  to  shut  the  inner  vision 
as  completely? 

He  lay  for  hours,  thinking,  thinking!  He  could 
do  nothing  else. 

Night  came  on  again.  Danilo  was  still  thinking. 
A  tray  of  untasted  food  sent  in  by  a  water-front 
chop-house  drew  a  half-score  of  buzzing  flies 
toward  the  varnished  bureau.  He  lay,  still  inert, 
but  disquiet  had  begun  to  succeed  the  first  hours 
of  emotional  exhaustion.  And  he  felt  ill,  also. 
His  throat  was  burning  and  his  breathing  labored 
and  choked. 

"  I  must  have  caught  cold  last  night,"  he  thought, 
"running  about  without  a  hat." 

Physical  discomfort  was  swinging  him  back  into 
the  paths  of  every-day  experiences.  He  even  had 
a  fleeting  impulse  to  prescribe  for  himself. 

A  fever  set  in.  He  began  to  dream.  ...  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Claire  was  moving  about  the 
room,  waiting  on  him,  serving  him.  She  had  on 
the  peacock-blue  dress,  but  the  shawl  was  gone  and 
her  white  shoulders  and  tapering  arms  gleamed 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

coldly  in  the  uncertain  light.  "Ah,"  thought  he, 
4 'her  lips  will  be  red!"  He  raised  his  eyes  to  her 
face,  but  he  saw  only  something  vague  and  gray 
and  formless.  '  *  She  has  wrapped  her  face  in  a  veil, ' ' 
he  said,  aloud.  "What  delicacy !  She  does  not  wish 
to  remind  me  of  last  night.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is  it !  ... 
Last  night  I  pointed  my  pistol  at  her  mouth.  But 
her  mouth  was  not  red  last  night  .  .  .  not  before  I 
closed  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Her  lips  were  red  once,  but 
she  wiped  them  clean  again,  for  me.  .  .  .  Why  did 
she  do  this  thing  for  me?  I  was  not  her  love?" 
And  suddenly  the  peacock-blue  dress  was  gone  and 
Claire  became  a  gray  figure  from  head  to  foot,  a 
gray  figure  with  two  red  lips.  Nothing  else  was 
visible.  She  began  to  move  toward  him.  He  tried 
to  turn  from  her,  to  lift  his  body  up,  to  fling  him 
self  downward  upon  his  face.  But  he  could  not 
move.  She  came  nearer.  .  .  .  Her  lips  were  widen 
ing  with  every  step.  She  halted  by  the  bed  .  .  . 
she  bent  over  .  .  .  she  kissed  him.  Her  lips  were 
warm  and  moist  and  horrible.  He  gave  a  deep, 
groan  and  woke  up. 

He  fell  asleep  again.  Now  he  dreamed  of  Serbia 
— his  country,  a  beautiful  woman,  golden  in  the 
morning  light.  She  lay  smiling  like  a  blossom  in 
the  dawn  and  her  long  hair  was  spread  out  on 
either  side.  Then  suddenly  a  leprous  sun  beat 
down  upon  her  and  she  tried  to  lift  her  arms  to 
screen  herself  from  its  fury,  but  could  not.  Flies 
gathered,  her  body  grew  loathsome,  her  lips  black. 
Then,  coming  down  a  dust-stung  road,  he  saw  a  gray 
figure — a  gray  figure  with  two  smiling  red  lips  show 
ing  through  a  rent  in  its  drab  winding-sheet.  And 

332 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

his  beloved  country  stirred  faintly  and  gave  a  deep 
cry.  The  gray  figure  stopped,  bent  over  gently,  and, 
taking  two  strands  of  the  flowing  hair  in  its  wan 
hands,  drew  a  covering  over  the  festering  body. 
.  .  .  He  looked  again.  The  gray  figure  was  hold 
ing  out  her  hands  to  him!  He  went  toward  it 
joyfully.  And  at  that  moment  the  gray  winding- 
sheet  fell  away  and  Claire  stood  before  him,  smiling. 
He  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  her.  .  .  .  He  could 
feel  himself  being  lifted  up.  "Claire — always 
Claire!!'  he  cried.  ...  He  awoke  again,  sobbing. 

Once  he  dreamed  of  Stillman,  covered  with  the 
lizard-like  scales  of  a  million  dollars,  a  venomous 
creature  that  darted  hither  and  thither  and  finally 
grew  confused  with  the  personality  of  Flint  and 
became  a  two-headed  monster.  ...  In  the  end  the 
reptile  sat  calmly  down  before  the  cheap  varnished 
bureau  and  consumed  Danilo's  untasted  meal. 

Thus  they  came  and  went,  dream  succeeding 
dream. 

He  was  roused  finally  by  a  voice  calling  for  him 
to  get  up.  He  opened  his  eyes.  The  hotel  clerk 
stood  at  the  side  of  his  bed.  The  tray  of  untasted 
food  still  lay  upon  the  bureau. 

"What  is  the  matter,"  the  hotel  clerk  was  saying. 
"Are  you  drunk?" 

Danilo  stirred.  "No.  ...  I  have  been  ill. 
What  time  is  it?" 

"Do  you  realize  that  you  have  been  here  three 
nights  ?  It  is  Monday  morning.  I  began  to  think 
you  had  committed  suicide." 

"No.  .  .  .  Everything  is  all  right.  Presently  I 
shall  get  up." 

333 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

The  man  went  out,  whistling,  carrying  the  tray 
with  him.  Danilo  felt  weak  and  helpless,  but  he 
drew  himself  to  his  feet  and  fell  back  into  a  chair. 

Monday  morning!  He  had  been  there  since 
Friday,  then.  His  patients — what  about  his  pa 
tients?  He  felt  suddenly  irritated  at  himself  for 
this  professional  lapse.  Suppose  some  of  his  patients 
had  died  meanwhile?  The  possibility  brought  a 
cold  sweat  to  his  forehead.  He  thought  of  the 
young  mother  whose  bedside  he  had  quitted  to 
appear  at  the  Serbian  Relief  concert;  a  child  who 
had  been  run  over  by  a  street-car;  the  last  man 
he  had  operated  on;  Mrs.  Robson. 

"I  must  see  them  all,  once  again,"  he  muttered. 
"After  that  .  .  ."  He  shrugged. 

For  three  nights  he  had  slept  in  his  clothes.  He 
had  not  even  removed  the  pistol  from  his  hip  pocket. 
He  stood  up  and  drew  it  from  its  place.  There 
was  something  fascinating  and  sinister  about  its 
cold  gleam.  The  words  of  the  hotel  clerk  came  to 
him — "I  began  to  think  you  had  committed  suicide!" 

He  put  the  pistol  back  in  its  hiding-place — he  had 
duties,  duties.  He  kept  repeating  this  as  he  tried 
to  gather  strength  for  a  supreme  effort.  He  was 
extraordinarily  weak,  and  the  fever  still  lit  his  eyes 
and  burned  the  vivid  red  of  his  lips  to  a  dull,  dry 
purple.  He  washed  himself,  tried  to  brush  his 
clothes,  ran  his  trembling  fingers  through  his  hair. 
It  was  an  hour  before  he  felt  able  to  venture  on 
the  street. 

It  was  a  dull  morning.  The  fog  had  mixed  itself 
with  the  city's  smoke,  floating  like  an  enormous 
and  malignant  black  bird  whose  poised  body  shut 

334 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

out  the  sun.     Danilo  shivered.     He  still  felt  very 
weak. 

He  decided  to  go  and  call  on  Mrs.  Robson.  Not 
until  then  had  he  thought  of  Claire  in  any  concrete, 
personal  way.  Would  he  see  her?  He  remembered 
now  that  she  was  dead.  But  the  thought  that  he 
would  see  her  still  persisted.  Death  and  Claire 
Robson  were  terms  that  he  could  repeat,  but  not 
really  sense.  It  was  only  when  he  had  swung  off 
the  car  at  Larkin  Street  and  turned  the  corner  at 
Clay  Street  that  the  horrid  realization  struck  him 
with  relentless  force.  A  hearse  was  drawn  up  to 
the  curb  in  front  of  the  Robson  flat  and  a  knot  of 
curious  people  were  watching  the  pallbearers  lift 
a  flower-smothered  casket  down  the  shallow  steps. 
He  did  not  go  any  farther,  but  stood,  motionless, 
watching  the  somber  pageant.  .  .  .  Presently 
everything  was  settled;  the  hearse  began  to  move 
forward,  followed  by  three  limousines.  The  pro 
cession  came  toward  Danilo.  The  hearse  passed 
the  corner.  Instinctively  he  removed  his  hat.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  all  over  he  turned  deliberately 
toward  town. 

"Claire  is  dead,"  he  repeated.  "What  does  the 
rest  matter?" 

Suddenly  his  professional  consciousness,  the  last 
link  that  bound  him  to  reality,  had  snapped. 

He  went  back  to  his  lodgings — the  old  lodgings  on 
Third  Street,  where  he  had  been  staying  for  a  week. 

"Where  have  you  been  for  three  days?"  asked 
the  proprietor.  "At  least  a  dozen  people  have 
been  looking  for  you." 

Danilo  smiled  grimly  and  said  nothing. 
335 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"The  police  are  on  my  trail!"  he  thought. 

He  went  up  to  his  room  and  began  to  pack. 
There  was  really  very  little  to  assemble;  most  of  his 
wardrobe  still  remained  at  the  Robson  flat.  After 
he  had  finished  he  sat  down.  He  seemed  incapable 
of  forming  any  plan.  What  should  he  do?  Where 
should  he  go?  What  did  it  matter?  His  thought 
moved  in  an  irritating  circle.  .  .  .  Once  he  rose 
to  his  feet  and  drew  the  pistol  from  his  pocket.  He 
looked  at  it  a  long  time.  Finally  he  laid  it  on  the 
bureau.  A  beam  of  sunlight  played  upon  the  pol 
ished  barrel.  Its  glint  irritated  Danilo.  He  moved 
the  weapon  out  of  the  light.  .  .  .  Presently  he 
heard  the  chimes  from  St.  Patrick's  Church.  He 
knew  now  that  it  was  noon.  ...  He  began  to 
count  the  money  in  his  pocket.  Seven  dollars  and 
forty  cents!  How  far  would  that  take  him? 
How  much  nearer  would  seven  dollars  and  forty 
cents  carry  him  to  Serbia?  ...  He  began  to  laugh. 

The  telephone  tinkled.  Danilo  hesitated,  then 
walked  calmly  over  and  took  down  the  receiver. 
The  voice  of  the  hotel  clerk  said : 

"This  is  the  office.    Mr.  Stillman  is  down-stairs." 

"Mr.  Stillman?  Oh  yes,  of  course.  Tell  him 
to  come  up." 

This  was  the  end!  Well,  what  was  he  to  do? 
Stand  calmly  and  let  Judas  betray  him  into  the 
hands  of  his  enemies?  He  fancied  Stillman's  en 
trance  into  the  room,  the  cool  cordiality  of  his 
manner,  the  advance  with  outstretched  hands.  At 
that  moment  the  police  would  dart  swiftly  for 
ward!  Danilo  had  seen  it  all  a  thousand  times 
at  the  moving-picture  shows.  The  trick  was  as 

336 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

old  as  Gethsemane  and  as  young  as  the  screen 
drama ! 

He  picked  up  the  pistol.  This  was  to  have  been 
Stillman's  portion.  Well,  it  was  not  too  late !  The 
outlaw's  instinct  to  barricade  himself  and  defy 
everybody  up  to  the  last  moment  came  over  him. 
A  knock  sounded  upon  the  door.  .  .  .  He  flung 
himself  about,  bracing  his  body  against  the  bureau. 
The  pistol  was  grasped  firmly  in  his  hand;  he  had 
but  to  raise  it  to  cover  his  visitor  successfully. 
He  moistened  his  lips. 

"Come  in!"  The  words  snapped  out  with  a 
command  that  was  also  a  menace. 

The  door  swung  back.  Stillman  stood  upon  the 
threshold.  Danilo  felt  his  senses  reeling.  He 
tried  to  lift  the  pistol.  He  had  grown  frightfully 
weak. 

"George!"     Suddenly  Stillman's  voice  rang  out. 

The  word  echoed  through  the  room.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  Stillman  had  ever  called  Danilo  by 
his  Christian  name.  A  great  yearning  came  over 
Danilo,  a  sense  of  futility,  the  feeling  that  every 
thing,  even  life  itself,  was  a  horrible  mistake ! 

"George!"  Stillman  was  crying  to  him  again, 
like  a  brother  from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

Danilo  roused  himself  with  a  supreme  effort, 
crouched  low,  narrowed  his  eyes.  Claire  was  dead ! 
What  did  it  matter?  .  .  .  No,  it  was  too  late. 
He  lifted  the  pistol  slowly  but  surely.  Stillman 
gave  one  startled  look  and,  throwing  his  head  back, 
seemed  to  say : 

"Why  don't  you  shoot?     I  am  waiting." 

Danilo  looked  down  at  the  shining  weapon.  It 
337 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

was  on  a  level  with  his  own  heart.  Claire  was  dead! 
Deliberately  he  turned  the  muzzle  upon  himself 
.  .  .  The  noise  of  the  shot  sounded  far  away.  He 
felt  Stillman's  arms  enfold  him. 

"What  have  you  done?  What  have  you  done? 
.  .  .  My  God!  but  this  is  a  mistake!" 

He  heard  Stillman's  voice  trembling  with  pas 
sionate  protest.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

"My  brother!"  he  said,  and  he  lifted  his  hand 
to  Stillman's  wet  brow.  .  .  .  "My  brother!"  he 
felt  himself  murmur  once  more.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he 
was  swallowed  up  in  a  merciful  oblivion. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"T  HAVE  tried  to  get  you  by  telephone  without 
*  success.     Danilo   is   asking   for   you.     I   shall 
call  with  the  machine  at  three-thirty." 

Claire  Robson  dismissed  the  messenger-boy. 
Her  heart  was  beating  quickly.  She  folded  the 
note  and  climbed  up-stairs.  Danilo  is  asking  for 
you.  .  .  .  What  tragedy  and  pathos  lay  in  these 
simple  words!  She  had  been  waiting  for  just  this 
moment  ever  since  Stillman  had  said  to  her : 

"We  have  found  Danilo  ...  in  his  old  lodg 
ings.  Can  you  guess  what  has  happened?" 

She  had  known  at  once.  Had  intuition  or  the 
look  in  Stillman's  eyes  betrayed  the  dreadful 
secret?  Since  then  only  scant  messages  had  come 
to  her  from  the  sick-room.  Danilo  still  lay  in  his 
Third  Street  lodgings;  his  doctors  had  been  afraid 
to  risk  moving  him.  Stillman  had  not  left  his  side. 
Claire  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  him,  to  see 
him  if  only  for  the  briefest  of  moments,  but  Stillman 
had  been  obdurate. 

"He  must  have  no  excitement.  The  doctor 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  No,  you  must 
wait." 

"But  you  are  with  him.  .  .  .  Do  you  real 
ize  .  .  ." 

"Yes." 

339 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

She  said  no  more  .  .  .  but  she  had  suffered! 
Three  long,  unending  days!  And  now  he  had 
asked  for  her.  She  could  not  define  the  emotion 
which  moved  her.  Was  it  relief,  or  fear,  or  a  sad 
hope  ?  She  dressed  herself  long  before  the  appointed 
time,  in  a  cool,  pleasant-looking  white-serge  suit 
that  had  been  intended  for  the  trousseau.  Miss 
Proll,  coming  upon  her  in  the  hall,  gave  a  disapprov 
ing  glance. 

"I  couldn't  wear  black!"  Claire  explained.  "I 
simply  couldn't!  ..." 

' ' Ah  yes,  of  course !    You  are  right. ' ' 

Her  lips  quivered  when  she  finally  faced  Stillman. 

"You  are  in  white,  I  see,"  he  said,  with  an  air 
of  gentle  approval.  "I  am  glad  of  that!  It 
makes  everything  seem  more  cheerful." 

They  went  down  the  stairs  in  silence.  Stillman 
lifted  her  into  the  car — she  could  feel  his  hand 
tremble.  After  they  had  started  she  looked  search- 
ingly  at  Stillman 's  face.  All  his  cool  complacency 
was  gone,  his  mouth  had  the  parted  expression  of 
a  man  whose  lips  could  not  quite  shape  the  truths 
that  had  been  revealed  to  him,  and  his  eyes  shone 
like  one  who  had  been  walking  with  visions.  This 
was  the  look,  Claire  fancied,  that  shepherds  fresh 
from  solitary  upland  pastures  must  have,  or  a  man 
who  had  walked  into  the  shrapnel  fire  and  come 
out  unscathed,  or  a  young  mother  fresh  from  the 
crowning  experience  of  her  life.  .  .  . 

At  the  door  of  Danilo's  room  they  met  a  priest 
coming  out.  He  bowed  gravely  to  Stillman  and 
passed  on  without  speaking.  They  went  in.  A 
thick,  pleasant  odor  of  incense  had  killed  the  smell 

340 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

of  antiseptics  for  the  moment.  The  nurse  was 
washing  her  hands,  an  icon  opposite  the  bed 
reflected  unsteady  flickerings  from  the  tiny  lamp 
in  front  of  it. 

"You  may  stay  five  minutes,"  the  nurse  whis 
pered,  and  passed  out. 

Claire  stood  back  and  let  Stillman  go  up  to  the 
bed.  She  had  a  sudden  feeling  that  she  was  a 
stranger,  that  her  presence  made  no  difference, 
that  these  two  men  were  sufficient  to  themselves. 
She  could  not  see  Danilo's  face,  but  she  had  never 
imagined  anything  more  gentle  and  tender  than  the 
hand  which  she  saw  Stillman  lay  upon  the  sufferer's 
forehead.  .  .  .  Presently  Stillman  turned  about  and 
beckoned  to  her.  She  went  forward.  She  felt  that 
her  heart  would  burst.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  was  face 
to  face  with  Danilo!  He  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 
She  sat  down  upon  the  bed. 

She  could  feel  Danilo's  hand  searching  for  hers. 
"Claire  .  .  .  fancy  .  .  .  you!" 

He  closed  his  eyes  without  another  word.  They 
sat  in  silence. 

Stillman  stood  the  whole  time,  bending  over, 
his  gentle  hand  hovering  above  Danilo's  black 
hair.  .  .  .  The  nurse  came  back. 

"Come,"  said  Stillman. 

Claire  suffered  him  to  withdraw  her  hand  from 
Danilo's  tight  clasp.  She  rose.  Danilo  opened 
his  eyes  again.  His  lips  began  to  move.  She 
brought  her  ear  on  a  level  with  his  trembling 
mouth. 

"Claire  .  .  .  will  you  marry  me  now?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

34i 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

He  gave  a  contented  sigh  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall.  Stillman  and  Claire  went  out.  .  .  . 

"He  is  making  a  brave  fight,"  Stillman  said  at 
parting.  "The  bullet  pierced  the  lung.  But  there 
are  other  complications.  Bronchitis  has  developed. 
One  can  never  tell." 

She  could  not  speak.  She  did  not  even  say 
good-by  to  him. 

"I  shall  call  again  for  you  to-morrow." 

She  acknowledged  his  words  with  a  brief  nod. 

When  she  got  home  she  filled  the  swinging-lamp 
in  front  of  Danilo's  name-day  icon  with  oil  and  lit 
a  floating  taper.  Miss  Proll,  who  had  been  watch 
ing  her  curiously,  looked  puzzled.  Her  glance 
seemed  to  imply: 

"Can  it  be  that  you  believe  in  such  foolishness?" 

Claire  found  that  it  was  impossible  to  answer 
a  question  at  once  so  simple  and  so  profound. 
There  was  every  reasonable  argument  in  the  calen 
dar  to  support  Miss  Proll's  skepticism,  but  Claire 
was  learning  that  life  upon  a  reasonable  basis  was 
apt  to  be  intolerable.  It  was  the  irrational,  the 
impulsive,  the  imprudent  moments  that  gave 
existence  color  and  swift  movement. 

"Claire  .  .  .  will  you  marry  me  now?  .  .  ." 
Danilo's  words  came  back  to  her  with  all  their  beau 
tiful  and  daring  simplicity.  A  child  acknowledging 
a  fault,  and  trembling  upon  the  threshold  of  a  joy 
that  was  likely  to  be  denied  in  consequence,  would 
have  used  the  same  tone.  This  was  the  manner 
of  petition  that  must  swerve  even  a  God  of  Wrath 
from  his  vengeance,  she  thought,  that  could  wring 

342 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

showers  of  mercy  from  the  most  pitilessly  blue 
skies. 

She  thought  of  Stillman,  too — this  new  Stillman, 
forged  in  the  flame  of  a  perilous  spiritual  experience, 
still  glowing  and  warm.  He  had  never  seemed  so 
human  as  at  that  moment  when  she  had  stood  apart 
and  watched  his  hands  fluttering  above  the  head 
of  the  man  they  both  loved.  .  .  .  Loved?  Yes, 
he  loved  Danilo — as  Lycurgus  loved  him,  as  her 
mother  had  loved  him.  "Where  is  Danilo?" 
This  had  been  Mrs.  Robson's  last  question — her 
last  words. 

She  could  not  fancy  her  mother  calling  for  Still 
man.  It  was  not  given  to  many  to  be  a  flint  upon 
which  the  sparks  of  affection  are  readily  struck. 

She  went  every  day  with  Stillman  and  sat  for 
five  minutes  at  Danilo's  bedside,  and  on  the  third 
day  Danilo,  opening  his  eyes  wide,  said  to  her  in 
a  clear  voice,  so  that  even  Stillman  could  hear : 

"Claire,  will  you  marry  me  to-morrow?" 

Instinctively  her  eyes  met  Stillman's;  he  bowed 
his  head  for  a  moment,  and  she  could  see  that  his 
hands  were  clenched. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  she  answered. 

Danilo  turned  to  Stillman.  "My  brother,  do 
you  think  it  will  be  possible?" 

Stillman  smiled  doubtfully.  "To-morrow?  That 
is  rather  soon  .  .  .  but  when  you  are  a  little 
stronger  ..." 

Danilo's  face  fell.  At  that  moment  the  doctor 
came  in. 

It  was  not  possible.  The  doctor  would  not  hear 
343 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

to  such  a  thing,  and  he  scolded  Danilo  gently  as 
one  scolds  a  sick  child. 

That  night  Danilo 's  fever  increased.  He  was 
restless;  nothing  pleased  him.  The  doctor  said 
next  day  to  Stillman : 

"I  don't  understand  .  .  .  something  must  have 
irritated  him.  He  is  troubled  mentally." 

"It  is  the  wedding.  I'm  afraid  he  has  set  his 
heart  upon  it." 

"Nonsense!  Doctor  Danilo  has  had  enough  pro 
fessional  experience  to  know  that  .  .  .  Why,  my 
dear  fellow,  he  is  a  full-grown  man,  you  must 
remember." 

"Yes,  and  at  heart  a  child.  ...  He  is  like  all 
big  people." 

Two  more  days  dragged  by.  Danilo  grew  no 
better;  in  fact,  he  was  worse,  if  anything. 

"I  can't  make  it  out,"  the  doctor  admitted. 
"Physically  he  seems  everything  that  one  could 
hope  for,  but  his  mind  is  straining  at  something. 
.  .  .  Perhaps,  after  all,  you  are  right.  Well,  I 
fancy  we  will  have  to  risk  the  excitement." 

When  they  told  Danilo  he  fell  back  upon  his 
pillow  and  his  face  grew  suddenly  white. 

"To-morrow!"  he  murmured.  "Fancy!  .  .  . 
No,  it  cannot  be  true!" 

By  the  time  Claire  came  he  was  glowing  with 
a  strange,  new  animation. 

"Claire!  Claire!"  he  cried.  "Think,  we  are 
to  be  married  to-morrow!  And  you  are  to  wear 
your  wedding-dress  ...  a  real  wedding-dress  .  .  . 
the  veil  and  all!  .  .  .  Only  there  will  be  no  feast. 
What  a  pity!  .  .  .  But  no  matter,  when  I  get  well 

344 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

again  then  we  will  have  a  feast,  Claire.  Unless  .  .  ." 
his  voice  grew  suddenly  almost  inaudible — "  unless 
I  die  of  joy,  Claire!  ...  of  joy!" 

Stillman  turned  away.  She  fell  on  her  knees 
beside  the  white  bed. 

1 '  There,  there !"  she  said,  soothingly.  '  'You  mustn't 
get  so  excited.  You  mustn't  think  about  it!" 

He  closed  his  eyes.  "Claire,  I  cannot  wait  until 
to-morrow.  Will  you  kiss  me,  now?" 

And  for  the  first  time  their  lips  met. 

They  had  planned  a  daytime  wedding  at  first, 
but  it  transpired  that  the  priest  in  charge  of  the 
Greek  church  had  been  called  out  of  town  and 
would  not  be  back  until  evening.  When  Danilo 
heard  this  he  said: 

"What  is  the  difference?  A  priest  is  a  small 
matter!  Cannot  Claire's  minister  ..." 

But  Claire  was  wiser.  "No,"  she  said.  "Let 
us  wait  for  the  priest." 

And  so  it  was  settled  for  eight  o'clock  that 
evening. 

At  the  news,  Miss  Proll  quivered  with  excite 
ment.  "To  think  that  it  would  all  end  this  way. 
.  .  .  But  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  to  wear  your 
wedding-dress. ' ' 

Nellie  Holmes  flew  over  in  great  haste.  "And 
who  is  to  marry  you?  A  priest?  .  .  .  Well,  I 
suppose  it  is  best  to  humor  a  sick  man,  but  I  don't 
know — somehow  it  seems  too  outlandish,  all  that 
incense  and  chanting  and  everything!  .  .  .  And 
I'm  coming  to  the  wedding!  Don't  forget  that. 
You  can't  shut  me  out.  .  .  .  Remember,  I  intro- 
23  345 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

duced  you.  Come  now,  buck  up!  Don't  look  so 
anxious — it's  a  painless  ceremony.  And  you'll 
be  a  stunning-looking  bride,  Robson.  ...  I  tell 
you,  friend  Danilo  is  going  to  be  mighty  glad  that 
he  was  such  a  bad  shot." 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  excitement  Claire  suddenly 
remembered  Mrs.  Condor.  She  rang  her  up. 

' '  I  am  to  be  married  to-night, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Would 
you  like  to  come  and  go  with  us?" 

"No,  Claire.  But  if  I  might  see  you  before  you 
start  ..." 

It  was  a  busy  day  and  almost  before  Claire 
realized  it  was  time  to  dress. 

At  eight  o'clock  they  heard  the  toot  of  Stillman's 
car,  and  to  Claire's  surprise  Stillman  himself  broke 
in  upon  them.  She  was  all  dressed  and  ready.  .  .  . 
He  came  up  the  stairs  with  a  jaunty  air.  "This 
is  Danilo's  idea!"  he  cried  out.  "It  seems  in  his 
country  a  friend  is  always  sent  to  fetch  the  bride. 
...  A  Dever  they  call  him.  ...  I  couldn't  per 
suade  him  to  let  you  come  alone  and  in  peace. 
He  said:  'My  brother,  let  me  have  an  Old  World 
custom  or  two.  .  .  .  You  Americans  have  nothing 
worthy  of  the  name,  except  that  abominable  rice- 
throwing  and  old  shoes.' ' 

"A  Dever!"  ejaculated  Nellie  Holmes,  in  mildly 
scandalized  tones.  "Well,  I  never!" 

It  did  seem  rather  ridiculous.  Stillman's  per 
sonality  somehow  didn't  fit  the  office.  But  the 
incident  gave  a  touch  of  forced  gaiety  to  the  oc 
casion — a  peg  on  which  to  hang  the'  jester's  cloak. 

Claire  and  Miss  Proll  and  Nellie  Holmes  went 
346 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

down  first  to  the  car,  Mrs.  Condor  and  Stillman 
followed. 

When  Lily  Condor  reached  the  curb  Claire 
leaned  out  to  her  farewell  embrace. 

"Claire  .  .  .  Claire  .  .  .  how  foolish  we've  all 
been!" 

"How  foolish  we  are  still,"  Claire  whispered 
back.  "Thank  God  for  that!  .  .  ." 

Presently  they  were  off.  The  yellow  street- 
lamps  seemed  to  Claire  to  be  melting  into  a  con 
tinuous  ribbon  of  gold.  She  had  expected  to  suc 
cumb  to  all  manner  of  emotions  and  vivid  thoughts, 
but  instead  her  mind  seized  upon  a  childish  memory. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  she  thought,  "there  lived 
in  a  certain  city  ..."  Stillman  was  looking  at 
her.  .  .  .  "And  there  came  riding  through  the 
streets  a  prince.  .  .  .  And  so  they  were  married 
and  .  .  .  How  foolish  we  are  still.  .  .  .  Thank 
God  for  that.  .  .  .  Thank  God  for  that!" 

'Come!"  Stillman  was  saying.  "We  have  ar 
rived." 

They  had  propped  Danilo  up  as  much  as  they 
dared  and  he  lay,  clean-shaven  and  hollow-eyed, 
but  burning  with  a  fire  that  showed  through  his 
transparent  pallor  like  a  candle  set  in  a  paper 
lantern.  The  priest  had  arrived  promptly,  and  al 
ready  an  altar  had  been  contrived  and  set  up  before 
the  bed,  an  altar  white  and  gleaming.  Holy 
images  were  scattered  about,  reflecting  the  pale 
flicker  of  swinging  lamps,  and  through  the  haze 
of  smoke  from  the  censer  the  harsh  outlines  of  the 
room  took  on  a  soft,  shadowy  remoteness. 

347 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"I  had  better  cover  my  face,"  Claire  said  as  she 
stood  upon  the  threshold  of  the  room. 

Miss  Proll  drew  the  veil  down  for  her  and  they 
went  in.  The  room  was  crowded  with  men,  mostly 
Danilo's  countrymen.  Lycurgus  was  there,  and 
Jimmy.  Claire  felt  faint.  She  clutched  at  Still- 
man's  arm.  "Why,  I  had  no  idea!"  she  said  .  .  . 
"so  many  people!" 

"He  wished  it  so.  .  .  .  Have  courage!" 

She  threw  her  head  back.     "Yes,"  she  answered. 

They  led  her  to  his  side.  He  touched  her  inert 
fingers  gently.  She  felt  crushed  at  the  passionate 
purity  of  his  deference.  She  wanted  to  fling  her 
self  forward  on  her  face.  .  .  .  Danilo  turned  tow 
ard  the  priest.  "Come!"  he  called,  a  bit  impa 
tiently.  "Let  us  begin." 

Claire  thought  the  priest  would  never  end.  She 
had  fancied  that  the  ceremony  would  be  cut  short 
for  Danilo's  benefit,  but  apparently  Danilo  had 
asked  for  every  detail,  every  symbol.  They  even 
exchanged  crowns  after  the  fashion  of  the  Greek 
Catholic  ritual.  The  incense  grew  thicker,  the 
tapers  before  the  holy  icons  flared  more  and  more 
brightly,  the  sonorous  chant  of  the  priest  droned 
on  and  on  and  it  seemed  to  Claire  as  if  his  fingers 
were  raised  continuously  in  midair  for  the  sign 
of  the  cross.  She  thought  of  her  mother.  How 
scandalized  her  mother  would  have  been — at  the 
altar,  at  the  curling  incense,  particularly  at  the 
sign  of  the  cross ! 

Finally  it  was  all  over.  Danilo,  pale  to  a  point 
of  swooning,  his  black  hair  clustering  moistly  about 
his  pillow,  lay  with  arms  outstretched  like  an  ivory 

348 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

crucifix,  against  which  Claire  pressed  her  pallid 
lips.  ...  He  did  not  stir  at  her  touch,  but  a  slight 
color  played  about  his  cheek-bones  and  one  hand 
trembled.  .  .  .  She  drew  away.  .  .  .  She  could 
hear  the  feet  of  the  spectators  moving  toward  the 
door.  She  continued  to  kneel  beside  the  bed. 
Danilo's  hand  was  in  her  hair  now.  .  .  .  Presently 
she  felt  some  one  touch  her  shoulder.  She  rose. 
The  nurse  stood  behind  her.  The  room  was  empty. 
She  began  to  weep  silently,  almost  without  emotion. 
Nellie  Holmes  and  Miss  Proll  were  coming  back. 
They  led  her  out.  .  .  . 

Standing  in  the  hall,  they  waited  until  the  nurse 
called  them  in  again.  Danilo  had  recovered  his 
animation  and  his  eyes  were  wide  open  and  glowing. 

"Ah,  and  so  we  are  to  have  a  feast,  after  all! 
Not  I,  of  course  .  .  .  but  you  shall  tell  me  of  it  to 
morrow!  .  .  .  Come,  has  he  said  nothing  about  it?" 

Stillman  laughed.  '  *  At  the  Ithaca, ' '  he  explained 
to  Claire.  "I  made  arrangements  to-day." 

"A  feast  .  .  .  not  really?"  she  stammered. 

A  slight  cloud  passed  over  Danilo's  face.  '  *  There ! 
She  does  not  approve,  my  brother.  ...  I  was  afraid 
of  that." 

"I  was  surprised,"  she  said,  gravely.  "And 
then  you  are  not  to  be  with  us." 

Danilo  smiled.  "When  I  am  well  again.  .  .  . 
You  see,  one  cannot  have  too  many  excuses  for 
a  feast."  He  gave  Stillman  his  hand.  "My 
brother,  what  should  we  do  without  you?" 


The  Ithaca  was  crowded.     The  long  tables  had 
349 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

been  set,  and  the  usual  decorations,  fern  fronds 
and  carnations,  made  splashes  of  green  and  red 
color  upon  the  table-cloths.  Lycurgus  came  for 
ward,  bowing  in  his  old  manner. 

"Ah,  that  Mr.  Stillman,"  he  whispered  to  Claire, 
"he  is  a  man,  I  can  tell  you!  Thank  you!  thank 
you!  .  .  .  He  says  nothing  about  prices.  Only 
a  feast  .  .  .  the  best  to  be  had!  And  everybody 
invited.  ...  I  have  worked  myself  all  day  in  the 
kitchen.  .  .  .  You  shall  see!  .  .  .  And  you  are  a 
beautiful  bride!  Never  have  I  seen  one  more 
beautiful!  .  .  .  That  Danilo  is  a  lucky  man  .  .  . 
and  you  have  made  him  happy.  Let  us  pray  God 
everything  goes  right." 

A  feeling  of  chill  had  succeeded  Claire's  poignant 
emotion,  but  now  she  felt  warmed — everything  was 
so  simple,  so  natural,  so  lacking  in  all  pretense. 
Lycurgus  led  Claire  to  the  bride's  seat,  Stillman 
followed  with  Nellie  Holmes  and  Miss  Proll.  A 
little  ripple  of  applause  ran  up  and  down  the  tables, 
but  the  company  was  still  a  little  uncertain  of  what 
was  most  fitting  to  do.  A  wedding-feast  without 
the  groom  was  hard  to  sense.  But  presently 
mastica  was  served  and  the  first  toast  drunk.  .  .  . 
After  that,  constraint  was  banished. 

Now  for  the  first  time  it  came  upon  Claire  that 
she  was  at  her  own  wedding-feast,  and  that  Stillman 
was  sitting  beside  her.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had 
yielded  her  up  to  some  austere  duty,  as  if  the  feast 
that  had  been  spread  for  him  was  one  not  so  much 
of  joy  as  of  renunciation — a  last  supper  in  the  upper 
chamber  of  his  heart's  desire.  Before  her  lay 
Stillman's  tribute — a  wonderful  golden  basket  of 

350 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

white  roses.  She  had  never  seen  roses  so  white. 
What  a  touching  thing  this  feast  was,  after  all! 
What  a  long  distance  Stillman  had  traveled  in 
order  to  appreciate  the  significance  of  such  a  child 
like  thing,  of  sensing  just  what  it  meant  to  Danilo ! 
And  suddenly  she  felt  how  beautiful  and  how  tragic 
life  was,  how  cleansed  and  scarred  by  the  wind 
storms  of  emotion!  Life  was  like  a  landscape 
answering  sunshine  and  cloud  in  its  season,  always 
beautiful,  always  incomplete,  veiled  sometimes  in 
the  mists  of  morning  and  again  palpitant  and  fully 
revealed  in  the  noonday  sun,  unchanging  and  yet 
never  quite  the  same.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  the  feast  champagne  was  served, 
and  the  guests  began  to  move  from  table  to  table 
with  their  glasses  lifted  high  and  their  lips  smiling 
out  good  will.  The  men  stopped  shyly  opposite 
Claire's  seat  and  for  the  most  part  toasted  her 
silently,  but  here  and  there  a  patron  who  had 
danced  to  the  old  tunes  that  she  had  once  played 
clasped  her  by  the  hand  and  called  gaily  to  her. 
Finally  a  young  woman  came  forward. 

"You  do  not  remember  me,"  she  said  to  Claire. 
"But  you  were  here,  at  my  wedding-feast.  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember?  ...  I  hope  your  husband  will 
soon  be  well!" 

Her  husband!  It  took  a  woman  to  voice  this 
new  estate  with  calm  simplicity.  This  was  the 
first  time  the  phrase  had  been  used.  She  turned 
to  Stillman.  He  looked  away. 

Now  came  music  and  dancing  —  Old  World 
music  and  long  lines  of  men  swaying  to  its  rhythm. 
Lycurgus  insisted  upon  Stillman  joining  them. 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

Claire  wondered  at  him  as  he  rose.  It  was  purely  a 
formality,  and  Stillman  had  nothing  to  do  beyond 
walk  through  his  part,  but  Claire  marveled  that  he 
could  have  been  persuaded.  Nellie  Holmes  railed 
audibly,  and  even  Miss  Proll  shook  her  head.  But 
Claire's  inner  vision  pierced  beyond  the  incon 
gruity  of  Stillman's  performance.  And  she  knew 
that  he  had  done  this  thing  because  he  understood. 
The  fruits  of  a  crucial  instance  lay  beneath  the  sur 
face  of  his  smiling  acceptance  of  the  situation. 
When  he  was  seated  again,  flushed  and  somewhat 
embarrassed  for  all  his  nonchalance,  she  said, 
softly : 

"If  Danilo  could  have  seen  you  he  would  have 
been  very  happy." 

The  bride's  cake  was  brought  on.  Claire  went 
through  the  formality  of  cutting  the  first  piece, 
and  then  Lycurgus  bore  it  away  to  a  serving-table. 
The  company  rose  to  their  feet  with  upraised 
glasses.  It  was  Stillman's  glass  that  touched 
Claire's. 

They  left  soon  after  this  last  formality.  Lycur 
gus  had  gathered  a  box  of  sweetmeats  and  dainties 
for  Danilo,  and  a  bottle  of  champagne.  Stillman 
and  Claire  stopped  at  the  hotel.  But  the  nurse 
denied  them  admittance  to  the  sick-room. 

"He  is  tired,  as  you  can  imagine,"  she  explained. 
"And  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  more  fever  than  is 
good." 

"I  wonder  if  we  did  the  right  thing,  after  all?" 
Claire  asked  Stillman  as  they  went  toward  the 
elevator. 

"We  must  believe  so,"  he  answered,  gravely. 
352 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HTHE  next  day  was  Sunday.  Claire  went  to 
1  church.  She  had  thought  at  first  of  spending  a 
holy  hour  wrapped  in  the  misty-blue  atmosphere  of 
Danilo's  faith,  of  seeking  out  the  little  Greek  house 
of  worship  on  Seventh  Street  and  lighting  a  taper 
for  the  man  who  had  made  her  his  wife.  But  in 
the  end  impulse  drew  her  to  the  church  of  her 
fathers,  and,  sitting  in  the  harsh,  untoned  light  of 
Doctor  Stoddard's  meeting-house,  she  caught  mo 
ments  of  cold,  austere  beauty,  veiled  and  mystic 
with  the  incense  of  her  rich  experience. 

She  saw  familiar  faces  about  her — faces  that  had 
once  had  the  power  to  draw  the  fire  of  her  envy, 
or  fill  her  soul  with  fluttering  dismay,  or  warm  her 
heart  with  their  patronizing  smiles.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  there  had  been  a  day  when  her  hopes 
had  flown  no  farther  than  the  promise  of  a  foothold 
among  this  group  bending  their  heads  in  self-satis 
fied  prayer?  For  a  moment  the  cold  rebellion  of 
her  childhood  had  brought  to  the  surface  a  feeling 
of  fluttering  scorn  for  them,  but  almost  as  quickly 
she  repented  her  rancor.  What  did  she  know  con 
cerning  the  fires  that  lit  their  inner  life — the  faiths 
that  supported,  the  sins  that  colored,  the  griefs 
that  cleansed  ?  How  many  months  had  passed  since 

353 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

she  had  sat  in  cankerous  silence  and  envied  the 
very  girls  passing  coffee  and  cake  at  a  church  social? 
Was  it  the  fault  of  these  people  that  she  had  tuned 
her  desires  to  so  faint  and  tinkling  an  ambition? 

The  star  of  Bethlehem  no  longer  burned  in  flick 
ering  gaslight  above  the  choir-loft,  but  as  Claire 
prayerfully  lifted  up  her  eyes  she  could  feel  its 
almost  forgotten  presence.  It  was  the  one  beautiful 
memory  of  the  religious  life  of  her  girlhood.  It  had 
burned  in  sensuous  beauty  far  above  all  the  cold 
form,  the  ugly  repressions,  the  wan  renunciations. 
It  had  made  her  eager  and  parted-lipped,  and  pas 
sionate  for  all  the  brooding  joys  of  existence. 
Such  a  star  had  led  wise  men  to  the  feet  of  living 
revelation,  but  was  it  not  also  possible  that  such 
a  star  had  lit  the  dim  myrtle-hedged  pathway  in 
Eden  down  which  the  first  courageous  pair  had 
walked  to  self-respect  and  freedom?  Was  it  not 
possible  that  God  had  veiled  his  face  in  admira 
tion  instead  of  anger,  leaving  a  yearning  eye  thus 
bared  to  the  night? 

And  suddenly  her  thoughts  flew  to  Danilo  and 
that  wonderful  night  when  they  had  pledged  their 
love  in  thin  red  wine.  During  the  week  she  had 
climbed  the  tawny  slopes  of  Telegraph  Hill  and 
stood  in  the  glare  of  noonday  above  the  fret  of 
the  town.  The  deserted  garden  where  they  had 
danced  their  love  dance  was  still  there,  a  little  more 
ragged,  a  little  more  rock-strewn,  a  little  more 
smothered  under  the  litter  of  accomplished  feasts. 
In  the  yellow  light  of  midday  it  lay  a  ravished 
husk,  its  dancing  feet  stilled,  its  music  a  wan  mem 
ory,  its  young  ardent  loves  hidden  like  nightin- 

354 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

gales  in  the  cool  forests  of  the  day.  The  strains 
of  the  wine-cup  made  hectic  flushes  upon  its  saffron 
face,  and  the  showering  petals  of  its  lingering 
roses  drifted  in  a  melancholy  flood  before  the  be 
traying  west  wind.  She  was  glad  that  she  had 
seen  it  so,  glad  that  the  first  picture  was  impossible 
to  duplicate,  to  repeat.  Life  was  meant  to  be  a 
progression. 

Presently  her  musings  leaped  to  wider  stretches. 
The  world  was  trembling  upon  the  threshold  of 
peace,  and,  about  her,  people  whispered  sad  hopes 
and  held  their  breath  in  a  silent  terror  of  expec 
tation.  Something  remote,  intangible,  ominous, 
hung  in  the  air.  She  felt  a  great  yearning  for  love 
and  life  and  service,  a  reaching  out  to  meet  the 
kiss  of  fellowship  half-way.  And  in  this  hour  of 
consecration  the  figure  of  Danilo  rose  before  her. 
She  had  never  loved  him  so  completely  as  she  did 
at  this  moment  when  the  memory  of  his  irrational 
and  human  folly  swept  her  like  a  waking  dream. 

"And  now  may  the  grace  of  God  ..."  Doctor 
Stoddard's  voice  was  ringing  out  in  the  impressive 
moment  of  the  benediction.  Claire  bowed  her 
head.  .  .  .  Was  not  life,  after  all,  a  succession  of 
springs  luminous  with  promise,  and  summers  whose 
harvests  must  of  necessity  fall  far  short  of  all  the 
brave  anticipations?  .  .  .  What  summer  could  pos 
sibly  yield  the  marvelously  golden  fruits  of  spring's 
devising? 


That  afternoon  Stillman  came  to  the  Robson 
flat  early. 

355 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"I'm  afraid,'*  he  began,  "that  they  will  not  let 
us  see  Danilo  to-day." 

"What?  .  .  .     Was  it  the  excitement?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Septic  pneumonia  has  developed. 
You  know  he  was  in  a  bad  condition  when  .  .  .  He 
had  bronchitis  then." 

She  turned  pale.  .  .  .  He  pressed  her  hand. 

"I  am  going  back  with  you,"  she  said,  calmly, 
as  he  made  a  protesting  gesture. 

He  did  not  dissuade  her  further. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  hotel  Danilo  was  un 
conscious.  The  priest  had  just  left  and  the  fra 
grance  of  incense  hung  like  a  mysterious  presence. 
Upon  the  table  a  candle  burned  feebly.  .  .  . 

The  nurse,  worn  out,  left  the  room  at  midnight. 
Claire  sat  calm  and  dry-eyed  at  the  bedside,  holding 
Danilo's  limp  hand  in  hers.  .  .  .  He  was  very  cold, 
she  thought.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a  low,  wailing,  mourn 
ful  sound  broke  the  somber  stillness.  Claire  sat 
rigid. 

"A  siren!"  flashed  through  her  mind. 

And,  in  a  twinkling,  bits  of  broken  noises, 
raucous  with  dry-throated  joy,  broke  forth — 
whistles  .  .  .  the  clanging  of  bells  .  .  .  the  hoarse 
cheers  of  people  .  .  .  the  quick  gasp  of  windows 
flung  open  to  the  night. 

Danilo  stirred.  "Claire  ...  I  hear  .  .  .  yes, 
I  hear  ...  a  noise — a  great  noise." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  ."  she  soothed.  "Be  quiet. 
.  .  .  Everything  will  soon  be  right." 

He  turned  away  from  her  with  a  weary  sigh. 
She  went  to  the  window.  So  it  had  come  ...  at 
last  .  .  .  feace!  Below  her,  in  the  streets,  a  great 

356 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

composite,  black  creature  danced  and  sang  and 
wept  and  rioted.  It  beat  the  air  with  sticks,  and 
flung  its  thousand  arms  up  in  gestures  of  abandon, 
and  called  upon  its  new  god  with  passionate  sup 
plications.  It  was  a  monster  at  once  terrifying, 
sublime,  ridiculous!  Claire  shuddered.  And  as 
she  stood  there  she  had  a  sense  of  doubt  and  faith 
and  tenderness  and  brutality,  such  as  comes  only 
in  swift  moments  of  revelation.  She  knew  now  that 
life  could  be  as  horrible  and  as  beautiful  as  it  dared. 
The  monster  below  was  a  genial  monster  for  the 
moment,  but  who  could  predict  what  might  come 
if  suddenly —  Instinctively  she  covered  her  eyes 
with  a  tremulous  hand.  .  .  .  Below  her  the  mon 
ster  danced  and  sang  and  laughed  for  hours  and 
hours,  and  for  hours  and  hours  she  stood  spell 
bound  watching  its  turbulent  antics. 

Gradually  a  light  began  to  quicken  the  east  .  .  . 
the  morning  star  flickered  and  died  .  .  .  the  clouds 
grew  wrathful.  Was  it  Danilo  who  called? 

She  went  over  to  the  bed.  His  eyes  were  open 
and  shining.  He  knew  her  now. 

1  'Lift  me  ...  up,"  he  faltered.  "Lift  me 
up."  .  .  . 

She  drew  his  wasted  form  upward.  A  smile 
was  on  his  lips.  .  .  .  Below,  the  monster  still 
bellowed. 

"Did  you  know,  dearest,  that  it  had  come?" 
she  questioned.  "It  is  finished.  .  .  .  Peace  has 
come!" 

She  went  over  and  pushed  back  the  curtain  so 
he  might  glimpse  the  morning.  How  red,  how 
very  red  the  sky  had  grown! 

357 


THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN 

"Yes,"  she  said  again.  "Peace  has  come. 
Now  we  can  go  back  ...  to  your  people  .  .  . 
and  bind  up  wounds.  .  .  .  Life  has  begun  for 
us  .  .  ." 

He  put  out  his  arms.     She  went  to  him, 

"Dawn  —  blood -red  dawn!"  he  muttered. 
"See  .  .  ." 

She  felt  a  sudden  terrifying  limpness  of  his  body. 
She  drew  back.  He  slipped  from  her  soft  caress, 
opened  his  eyes  wide,  drew  in  one  long  fluttering 
breath.  And,  suddenly  it  was  morning!  .  .  . 

When  she  raised  her  eyes  Stillman  was  beside 
her. 

"Everything  is  over,"  she  said. 
-He  lifted  her  up.     "No — not  everything.  .  .  . 
We  must  see  to  it  that  he  lives  on  .     .in  us!" 


THE    END 


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juii4 


AUG    1    1946 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


